Nchaa Bu
by AJ Wesley
Summary: The Winchesters take on a creature that has been dormant for a hundred years.  And it's back with a vengeance. Winner of the 2010 Fan Quality Award for Best Supernatural story.
1. Chapter 1

_Greetings! I know it's been a while. Hope y'all haven't forgotten me. :) I promised this a while ago, but I just don't know where the time goes. This story is my first foray into pre-series, but it takes place right before Sam leaves for Stanford. I figured there had to be a reason Sam wanted to be safe. Something that pushed him over the edge. This is my take. I hope you enjoy! Thanks! ~ AJ_

Nchaa Bu

By AJ Wesley

**Chapter 1**

This was just too easy.

Dean easily dodged the blow, elbowing his opponent in the shoulder blade on the carry-through. He smirked. The attack came again, and using a combination of martial arts and boxing, he blocked every strike, every kick. Even got in a few good ones himself. He bounced on the balls of his feet, offering a _come and get me_ gesture that elicited a furious growl. That was when he knew he'd won, even before the final blow.

A strike, a counter, a sweep, and it was all over. Sam lay on his back in the grass, panting.

"Sammy, what the hell was that?" Dad called out. "Where's your head? Because it's certainly not here."

_Oh, no. Here we go._ Dean held out a hand to help his brother up, but it was swatted away. "Sammy, don't do this," he pleaded softly, not wanting their father to hear.

But Sam wasn't listening. He climbed to his feet and stalked off, leaving a bewildered Dean in his wake.

"Sammy, get back here, _now_," John yelled. "Sam!"

Sam ignored him and kept going.

With a sigh, Dean turned to his father, stopping him from following with a hand on his chest. "Dad, just…let him go. I'll talk to him."

"Maybe _you_ can talk some sense into him." John raked a hand through his hair. "I can't have this, Dean. He's going to get hurt, or worse."

Dean could see the worry in his father's eyes as they trailed after the teen, watching him disappear into the woods. He waited expectantly for the okay.

John's shoulders fell. "All right. Just get him back here. He shouldn't be out there alone. It'll be dark in a couple of hours." He reached behind him, pulled the Glock from his waistband, and pressed it into Dean's hand.

Dean nodded, tucked the pistol away, and started after Sam.

John caught his arm. "Dean, don't get cocky during a fight."

"Yes, sir," Dean said, a pang of regret tightening his chest. He wasn't sure why. It wasn't like he ever got a _Good job, son_. He pushed the thought back to where it wouldn't hurt anymore and headed after his brother.

**oooOOOooo**

Sam didn't know where he was going, just _away_. Which was probably a really stupid idea considering what they were here hunting, but it wasn't night yet. He wished his father and brother would give him a little more credit.

He gave a short, bitter laugh. Yeah, like that was ever going to happen. Even at seventeen, he still couldn't best Dean in a spar. And although Sam's last growth spurt had given him two inches on his older brother, it had also screwed with his balance and coordination. Finding his center again was not easy, but he couldn't explain that to Dad. Couldn't explain anything. It seemed as if lately every conversation just deteriorated into a fight. What was he doing that was so wrong?

The strains of a song reached his ears, and before he knew it, Sam found himself following the sound. The voices—children's voices—became clearer as he closed the distance, but he couldn't understand the words. Sam broke into the clearing and saw the camp and the children sitting in a circle, swaying as they sang in the language of their ancestors.

Victoria sat among them, long black hair brushing her back as she rocked with them, singing along, helping them with the words. She was Councilman Paul's daughter, just a little older than Dean, and she was _really_ pretty. Sam felt something stir inside him as he watched her, felt the anger melt a little as he listened.

The song ended, and Victoria said something that made the children laugh. Then she looked up, saw him watching, and the next thing he knew, she was walking toward him. Sam felt his face warm. Damn it.

"Sam!" She greeted him with a smile that made him blush even more. But if she noticed, she didn't say anything.

Sam cleared his throat. "That was beautiful. What was it?"

Victoria glanced back at her students. "An ancient song to ward off evil spirits. Helps the children sleep at night."

Not an easy feat when Big Owl, _Nchaa Bu_ to the Apache, was out there. The evil spirit of local legend had suddenly reappeared after a century of banishment and was claiming victims wandering in its territory: the White Mountains. The Tribal Council had contacted Dad for help.

But with the lurking danger, Sam didn't understand. "Why don't you go back to the reservation? Why stay here?"

"This is our annual retreat, Sam," the teacher explained. "It's important. Keeps us in touch with our forefathers."

"But with everything that's going on—"

"We can't live in fear, Sam."

_Why not? I do. _He stopped that thought, unsure where it had come from and relieved he hadn't said it out loud.

"And," Victoria continued, "'with everything that's going on,' we've been telling the children not to go anywhere by themselves. Yet here you are…" Her eyes searched left and right.

God, did _everyone_ have to berate him? He straightened to his full height. "I can take care of myself."

Her smile was gentle and held no derision. "It's run off with warriors, too, Sam."

Did…did she just call him a warrior? Oh, God, his face had to be beet-red now.

A hand, soft and warm, touched him arm, sending a tingle through his body. "Be careful," she warned.

Sam could only manage a nod, then watched her as she returned to her students. With a final glance around, he turned and continued on his way.

**oooOOOooo**

Dean swore under his breath. Twenty-one and he had ulcers. Not because of the things he fought. Oh, no. It was because over the last three years, his little brother had been slowly turning into Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and there was no telling what would trigger the change. Dean felt like a freakin' referee. _Okay, you in that corner, and you in that corner. Now_!

Dad was no better. At least this time there hadn't been a yelling match. Those were scary, especially now that Sammy could get right in Dad's face. Okay, so maybe John Winchester wasn't the role model for Father of the Year, but he was a role model. One Dean looked up to, respected. He didn't understand why Sammy couldn't see that.

Speaking of… Where the hell did he go?

The squeal of laughter reached Dean through the trees, and with only a moment's hesitation, he turned in that direction. When he broke into the clearing, he saw Victoria herding a group of children back to the main camp. Dean hurried over to her.

"Hey!" he called. "Victoria!"

She stopped, waiting for him to catch up. "Hello, Dean."

"Have you seen Sammy?"

She smiled. "I'm well, how are you?"

"Sorry." Dean dropped his weight to one hip and affected a casual pose. "So, how's it goin'?"

Victoria laughed as a chorus of "Hi, Dean!" erupted behind her. Dean waved to the kids, but then his focus was back on her.

"So, uh…," he began.

"He looked upset. What happened this time?"

A week with the Apache and already Sam had a reputation. Dean laughed on a sigh. "I whooped his a—" Dean caught himself. "Butt," he finished with a shy grin.

Giggles from the kids.

Victoria shushed them, but there was still a smile on her face when she turned back. "Try down by the lake."

Dean nodded his thanks and took off at a jog. Sam hadn't had much of a head start, but those long strides sure carried him far. He couldn't ever beat Dean in a spar, but a race? The kid won hands down. Dean slowed to a walk as he got closer, trying to give his brother time to cool down.

The path to the lake meandered through a small copse of trees and emerged a few yards from the bank. Dean spotted his brother immediately. Sam was sitting by the water, his back to the path—_Sloppy, little brother_—but as Dean approached, he detected the slightest change in Sam's body, a minute turn of his head. Sam knew he was there. _Attaboy_.

Dean made no effort to conceal his presence now, and he saw the slump in Sam's shoulders as he approached. Without a word, Dean folded his legs and dropped down beside him.

"Dean." It was almost a whine.

"Hey, is there a law against sitting by the lake?"

Sam's head lowered and he picked at the grass.

"And I thought…you know…_maybe_…you'd want to talk." _Boy was that lame, Dean_.

A long-suffering sigh. "No, Dean, I don't want to talk."

Dean bobbed his head, his foot moving to a rhythm only he could hear. The water lapped gently against the bank. Flocks of birds flew across the sky in their evening dance. It was peaceful. Serene. It was driving Dean nuts. Time for some goading. "What, you want me to let you win? Is that it?

"No!" Sam insisted, agitated. "That's not what I—" He turned on Dean and saw the grin. "You're such a jerk."

"Bitch."

"Would you stop calling me that?"

"When you stop acting like one. Sammy, this hormonal crap's gotta stop. One of these days it's gonna get you—"

"It's _Sam_."

Typical. Selective hearing. "Yeah, whatever."

Sam was still glaring at him. "It's gonna get me what, Dean? Killed?" He laughed, but there was no amusement in it. "Do you know how that sounds? I mean, what other seventeen-year-old hears that, huh?"

"Plenty," Dean answered without missing a beat. "'Don't drive too fast, it could get you killed.' 'Don't go into the city by yourself, you could get killed.' 'Don't do drugs.' There's danger everywhere, Sam."

A loud sigh; Sam hated losing arguments. "I just…I want to go to school."

"You will. Once summer's over, Dad promised we'd settle somewhere so you can enroll and finish high school. Senior year, dude!"

Sam gave him an _are you for real?_ look. "You hated school."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I did. I hated it with a passion. I hated being cooped up like that. But I got my GED." He gave his brother a pointed look. "You know why? Because I had an obligation." He saw Sam's jaw twitch, knew he got the analogy.

Sam chose to ignore it. "I want to go to _college_. I want to make something of my life."

_Ouch_. Dean jerked back a fraction and raised his eyebrows. _Excuse me_. He stuck his tongue in his cheek and gazed out across the water.

Very quickly, Sam's demeanor changed. He twisted at the waist so he was facing Dean and lifted a hand. "No, Dean, I didn't mean…you're not…I just…"

Dean let him flounder.

Finally, Sam blew out a breath, thinking his words through. "You and Dad…you're good at this. Sometimes I feel like I'm just in the way. I'll never be as good as you."

"Sam—"

"You're my hero, Dean."

Dean's head swiveled back to his brother. Sam's eyes widened as if he suddenly realized he'd said that out loud, and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Dean opened his mouth, closed it. He didn't know what to say to that, so he just stayed quiet.

Sam cleared his throat. "But I don't want to be a sidekick forever." His gaze lowered to the grass they were sitting on. "Even Robin became Nightwing. But he had to leave Batman to do it."

Dean swallowed, hard. The kid was completely serious. He wanted to _leave_. But…why? Okay, so the life they led wasn't always easy, but they were helping people. And _normal_ people, they put too much emphasis on possessions. On _things_. Dean didn't have a lot of _things_. But what he did have—his father and his brother—he treasured. Didn't that mean the same to Sam?

Maybe they'd made a mistake sheltering Sam for so long. They'd tried to give the kid as normal a life as they could, and now that Sam was full-on hunting, normal was the life he craved. Oh, God. Sam was Dean's brother, his responsibility, his best friend. He didn't want to lose that. He couldn't…

What was that stupid-ass saying? If you love something, set it free…?

Lame. Who the hell thought that up?

Dean looked away, feeling the burn of tears in his eyes. He quickly pushed it down, regained control. Handled it the Winchester way. He cocked his head at Sam, eyebrows drawn in confusion. "Who the hell is Nightwing?"

His little brother looked at him askance, then snorted a laugh and punched Dean in the arm.

Dean slung an arm around his shoulders, drew him into a neck lock, and mussed his hair fondly. Mission accomplished. Sam was over his brooding, and Dean had successfully put off the conversation for a later time. He knew it wasn't over, but they had a hunt to worry about right now. He just had to make sure Sam's head was in the game.

"Get off," Sam growled, but it held no heat.

Dean let him go. "We gotta get back. Sun's going down." He pushed to his feet and offered Sam a hand up.

This time, Sam took it.

**oooOOOooo**

The sun at their backs created an orange glow across the valley. It wasn't until they entered the woods surrounding their cabin that Sam began to worry. The dense foliage blocked out much of the sun's light. It was a lot darker than it had been before. A _lot_ darker. He found himself moving a little closer to his brother.

Dean shoulder-bumped him, knocking him off balance. Sam managed to catch himself, then gave his brother a shove, the force of which sent Dean stumbling.

He straightened with a wicked grin on his face. "Okay, little brother. You wanna play? Come on. Rematch."

"What…you serious?"

"'Fraid I'll kick your ass again?"

Sam's faced clouded over. He hated when his brother baited him.

"Ah-ah," Dean admonished. "Don't get mad, Sammy. Use your _skill_, not your anger."

Sam smirked. "Why? Because it leads to the dark side? You gonna tell me to use the Force now?"

A shrug. "Couldn't hurt." Dean pulled the Glock from his waistband and set it on the moss beneath a nearby tree, then fell into fighting stance.

Alert now, Sam followed him. They circled, each looking for an opening. Sam made a move that Dean easily dodged. Then Sam was falling, tripped up by his own feet.

Dean dropped his guard, laughing.

Just like Sam had known he would. He rolled into Dean's legs, swung up and hit him behind the knees. Dean went down with a surprised _oof_. Sam was on top of his brother in an instant, pinning his shoulders to the forest floor.

"Sneaky," Dean wheezed, "but not bad."

"Not bad?" Sam snorted a laugh. "Dude, I _pinned_ you."

"Ow, man, my back—"

"Don't change the subject."

"I mean it, freak, get off!"

"No, not until you—"

"Sam."

"—admit defeat.

"_Sam_."

"What's the matter, big brother?" Sam crowed.

"Will you shut up and listen?"

Sam knew that tone, and what it meant. He instantly obeyed, his senses on full alert. He heard…nothing. No cicadas, no crickets, no birds. Nada. _So_ not good. Sam scrambled to his feet, pulling his brother up with him.

Dean dove for the Glock. "You're not packin'."

It wasn't a question. Embarrassment colored Sam's cheeks. He'd been so angry, he'd left his father and brother behind without taking any weapons with him. _Nice move, dork_.

Dean took a step closer, a hand on Sam's arm moving him in the direction of the cabin. Eyes darting this way and that, weapon ready, Dean all but circled the wagons around Sam.

It was aggravating, frustrating, even embarrassing, but somewhere deep down where Sam wouldn't exactly admit it, it was an utter relief.

_Whumph._

"What was tha—?" Sam began, but cut off when Dean gave him an urgent shove.

"Move!"

Everything seemed to happen at once. Sam staggered from the force of the shove, nearly falling, but managed to catch himself. Before he could even turn back to his brother, Sam heard the report of the gun and the shrill screech of what he knew was an owl.

He turned and found his brother right in front of him.

"Back to the cabin, Sam. Now. Go!" The urgency was clear in Dean's voice, his eyes, his stance.

Sam knew what his brother was saying. _Go on ahead. I'll cover you_. No way. "Dean—"

"Shut up and mo—"

Dean's body stiffened, his head jerking back as a strangled cry escaped through clenched teeth.

Sam grabbed his brother's upper arms, mouth opening in shock. But before he could ask what was wrong, a cloud of white appeared behind Dean, coalescing into a monstrous owl that had its claws embedded in the flesh of Dean's back below his shoulders.

Choking back a moment of blind panic, Sam snatched the Glock from Dean's grasp, swung the weapon to bear, and fired point-blank into the evil spirit.

The consecrated iron rounds dissipated it again.

Released, Dean dropped to his knees, his face screwed up in pain.

Sam carefully grabbed his right arm and hauled him to his feet. "C'mon."

Needing no more urging, Dean rose, cursing through gritted teeth.

Sam ran, keeping pace with his brother, making sure Dean stayed on his feet. Another screech filled the air. Then another, closer. How far was the cabin now, anyway?

Sam twisted and fired off another round. Had no idea whether he'd hit his mark. It was too dark. Damn it. Dad was going to—

"Boys! Down!"

Sam obeyed instantly. He felt Dean hit the ground beside him. There were just some commands so ingrained, there was no thought involved in following them. This was one of them.

An explosion of gunfire followed, Dad firing both barrels of the shotgun at the same time.

"Move. Now." John Winchester wasted no breath on extra words when things were urgent.

Sam scrambled to his feet, pausing only to make sure Dean was with him. He heard his father reloading as they ran past him, heard the next shot, and kept running.

Finally, the trees broke, and the welcoming sight of the cabin greeted him. Feet pounding the ground, Sam covered the distance with a burst of speed, leaped onto the porch, and slammed the door open.

Dean was several paces behind. He made it inside, then turned anxious eyes to the doorway and beyond, waiting.

Sam panted, his heart racing. He held the Glock up, ready, just in case.

Moments ticked by.

_Come on, Dad. Please_. Sam took a step toward the door.

Dean's fingers locked around his forearm. _Don't. _

Sam was about to argue when their father burst from the woods, running full-tilt toward the cabin. It wasn't until he was inside, the door closed, the salt line safely laid, that Sam could breathe again.

They all remained still, listening, waiting.

Nothing. Everything was quiet.

Dean leaned back against the wall by the door with a long, shaky sigh. Sam offered him a _we made it_ smile, but the smile faded as soon as he looked at his father. Hazel eyes glared back with an intensity that told Sam he was in serious trouble.

Sam averted his gaze, waiting for it…

A small, quiet groan captured his attention, and he looked up in time to see Dean slide down the wall to the floor, a smear of blood in his wake.

Together in their concern if nothing else, Sam and John rushed to Dean's side.

In that moment, everything else was forgotten.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks for the reviews! Hope you enjoy the next part!_

**Chapter 2**

Dean tossed back a shot of whiskey and winced, telling himself it was from the burn of the alcohol rather than his father's ministrations. He sat at the kitchen table, an array of first-aid supplies beside him, while Dad cleaned and stitched the puncture wounds on his back. It hurt like a bitch, but he wasn't about to say anything, not with Sammy standing there.

Sammy. Dean threw a glance his way. His brother stood at, well, _his_ version of "attention" just a few steps from the table. He'd tried to help, but one glare from Dad had him backing away, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. But he didn't go far. His chest rose and fell abnormally fast, like he was seething.

Great. Dean was still dizzy and lightheaded from blood loss. He couldn't handle playing mediator in another fight right now.

He jerked involuntarily at a particularly painful stitch, a small hiss of breath escaping his lips. Heard the mumbled "sorry" in response. The trickle of water told him Dad was washing his hands, then, a moment later, the cool relief of the antibacterial cream touched his skin and he knew it was almost over. Dean let himself relax, but only a little. Because he knew when this was over, _it_ would start.

Bandages were taped over the wounds.

Everything was quiet. Calm before the storm.

Then Dad threw down the towel, literally. The blood-smeared cloth hit the top of the table in front of Dean as Master Sergeant Winchester stepped in front of his youngest.

"You want to tell me what the hell kind of stunt that was you pulled today?" he demanded, not loud but intense.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and waited for it. And waited.

Nothing. He looked up.

Sam opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"Not only did you take off during a training session," Dad continued, "but you left _unarmed_. We're in the middle of a hunt, Sam! What the hell were you thinking? Your brother could have been killed."

Sam's gaze flicked to Dean, and Dean saw what he had missed before. Sam was mad, sure. But more than that, he looked…contrite. His brows drew together, offering Dean an apology with his expression if not with words.

"And what if Dean hadn't found you? What then?"

Sam looked at the floor, and Dean knew exactly what he was thinking. _It's gonna get me what, Dean? Killed? Do you know how that sounds? I mean, what other seventeen-year-old hears that, huh?_

"I didn't think—" Sam began.

"You're damn right, you didn't _think_," Dad yelled, cutting him off. "That's exactly the problem. You did the research on this thing—you of all people should know better. I don't know what's gotten into you, Sammy, but this has got to stop. Now. Understood?"

Sam swallowed, nodded.

Not what Dad was looking for. "_Understood_?" he repeated.

This time, Sam looked up, eyes meeting his father's. "Yes, sir," he gritted out, the muscles of his jaw twitching with tension.

Dad didn't even blink. "Good."

Dean recognized _that_ tone. Calm. Almost pleasant. Uh-oh. _Here it comes…_

"Now drop and give me a hundred."

Sam had the audacity to look surprised. _Hello? How long have you lived with the man?_ Dean resisted the urge to shake his head.

With a glare, Sam finally obeyed, channeling his anger into every push-up.

Dad watched him a moment, then turned to the table. He reached out, stopped, drew back.

The whiskey bottle.

Dean met his father's eyes, only for a second before the man did an abrupt about-face and left the kitchen. But Dean had seen it. Dad's hands had been shaking. Anger? Maybe. Dean suspected it was more than that, much more. So…why couldn't he just say it? _I love you, boys. I don't ever want to lose you._ Why was it so hard? This time, Dean did shake his head.

He leaned forward to bring himself to Sam's level, and had to grab the edge of the table as a wave of vertigo hit. He waited for it to pass, then laid a hand gently on his brother's back, feeling the tension there. "Sammy…" Dean winced at the slip. Habit. "Sorry. _Sam_, give it up," he whispered conspiratorially. "I'll swear you did a hundred."

For a moment, Sam said nothing. Then, without a break in momentum, he said on a breath, "Dean. Don't."

Stubborn little— Huh. His little brother wasn't so little anymore. But stubborn? Sam Winchester took the family trophy in that area. "It's not your fault, Sam," Dean tried, but knew it would do no good. "It wasn't even dark yet, man. That thing…maybe it's getting desperate. You know, because we've denied it its victims."

Up. Down. Up. Down. Dean guessed Sam had hit about twenty-five before he responded.

"Doesn't matter…Dad was right…I almost…got you killed."

Dean watched his brother through ten more, heard the labored breathing, saw the strain in his arms, the slightest tremble. "Dude, come on," he urged with a glance at the door.

Sam did stop then, arms fully extended, and turned his head to face Dean. "What would you do?" he asked. And he damn well knew the answer, too.

Dean broke eye contact first, but still saw Sam resume his punishment. "Where are you?" he asked quietly, resigned.

"Forty-five."

"All right…focus on something else. I'll keep count."

There was only the briefest hesitation, then Sam nodded.

Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and settled in to keep his brother company.

**oooOOOooo**

Dean shaded his eyes from the bright morning sun as he watched the helicopter land. Councilman Paul and Dad were standing just to his left, their conversation halted by the thrum of the massive blades. Their _expert_ had arrived.

Squinting against the flying debris, Dean watched as a man jumped from the seat beside the pilot and hurried to the rear door to help an elderly man from the back. The dude was pushing a hundred and had apparently been told the stories of Big Owl by his parents, who had lived through the last attack. Joseph Naiche moved slowly, but he wasn't what Dean would call feeble-looking. In fact, the guy didn't look like he was nearly a century old. Not that Dean had seen many people that old. The hope was that this guy could shed some new light on the whole thing. Sammy was a great researcher, there just wasn't a lot of information out there.

As they approached, a younger man fell into step just behind the older man, ready to offer assistance if needed.

Paul greeted Joseph warmly, trading a few words in their native tongue before gesturing toward John. The old man took John's outstretched hand in both of his and addressed him with a word Dean had heard only once before—when they'd first arrived—and wouldn't even try to pronounce. Then they were walking away, headed for the center of camp. That's where the main hut, or _wickiup_, that served as a meeting place stood.

Dean stared after them.

"You get used to being ignored."

Turning, Dean saw the young man who had helped Joseph from the helicopter. "Was it that obvious?"

"Clear as the water that flows from the White Mountains."

Dean grinned, canting his head. "Man, I must be slipping." He held out his hand. "Name's Dean."

"Charlie," the young man said, shaking his hand. He looked to be about Dean's age.

"So, how'd you get guard duty, Charlie?"

"Joseph is my grandfather."

Dean cringed. "Sorry."

Charlie smiled. "It's okay. My mother seems to think he needs looking after. But I don't mind, really. He tells great stories. Come on."

"You mean we can—"

"Sure. Just don't say anything." He started after the three men.

With a nod, Dean followed. "Don't speak unless spoken to. Got it."

"You're learning," Charlie tossed back over his shoulder with a smile.

Jogging to catch up, Dean grinned. It was a good thing Sammy wasn't there.

**oooOOOooo**

"So, your Dad…he's like…the chief?" Sam shifted the shotgun again, this time to his left hand to relieve his aching arms. He'd been okay the day before, if a bit wobbly after the hundred push-ups, but today…_ow_. The shotgun felt heavier than normal, but after yesterday, he wasn't going anywhere unarmed, especially with a civilian.

Civilian? Geez, he sounded like his father.

Technically, he was playing bodyguard. The teacher needed to gather samples of berries and herbs to show her students, but by Dad's orders, no one was to go anywhere alone.

"We have a governing body instead of one chief," Victoria explained. "My father is on the Tribal Council." She crouched to brush pine needles away from a small fern. "He says you can rid us of the Nchaa Bu."

"Yeah, well…" Sam wasn't sure he liked the trust these people had in him, in his family. According to legend, Big Owl couldn't be killed. "That's the plan," he finished lamely.

Victoria looked up at him and smiled. "Did you know your father has an Apache name?"

Sam snorted a laugh, then realized the teacher was serious. "You're kidding, right?"

She shook her head. "Our fathers have known each other a long time. Among my people, John Winchester is _Navezgane_. 'Killer of Monsters,'" she translated.

There was so much he didn't know about his father. Sam bit the inside of his mouth thoughtfully. "How did—?"

A shadow passed over them. A _huge_ shadow.

Sam brought his weapon up, stomach clenched, breath held. No way. It was broad daylight…

_Maybe it's getting desperate. You know, because we've denied it its victims._

Maybe Dean was right.

"Back to camp," he said urgently. "Go."

"Sam—"

"_Go_."

She turned and ran.

Sam tightened his grip on the shotgun, spun…and nearly crashed into Victoria, who had stopped dead in her tracks.

A hulking mass lumbered toward them. It had to be seven feet tall, with long greasy hair hanging down past its shoulders. It was no owl.

But it was _Nchaa Bu_. Sam remembered reading that the owl spirit sometimes took human form. "Get behind me!" he shouted, taking aim.

Victoria didn't move. She was just staring at the thing, at its…_eyes_.

Sam muttered a curse. The creature's glowing yellow eyes could mesmerize. Apparently, _that_ part of the legend was true, too. He grabbed Victoria's arm and pulled her out of the way, then fired both barrels right into the thing's chest.

It barely missed a step. Sam cursed again as he dug more shells out of his pocket to reload.

That was when he heard her singing. The song…he'd heard it before. It was the one Victoria had been teaching her students, and she was singing it now, soft and melodic.

To Sam's amazement, the creature stopped and shook its matted head. It made a sound that was halfway between a growl and a whimper. Then it disappeared in a cloud of gray.

The breath Sam had been holding shuddered out as he darted to the teacher, who was sitting on the forest floor, her eyes squeezed shut. "Hey," he called gently. "You did it."

Slowly, her eyes opened and her gaze darted about. "I-it's…"

"Gone," Sam said, helping her up. "Guess that song really works."

"I guess," she offered shakily. "I figured it was worth a try."

He gave her a gentle push, urging her to move. "Come on, let's get—"

A blow to his shoulder lifted him off his feet and landed him several feet away, face down in forest detritus.

"Sam!"

He lifted his head in time to see the gray mass forming behind Victoria as she rushed toward him. "Run!" he told her urgently. "Get Dean and my dad. Hurry."

She paused a moment, uncertain.

"Go on!"

He missed the sadness in her eyes just before she turned and ran, because his focus was all on the creature. Sam scrambled for the shotgun he'd dropped, hoping another double round of consecrated iron would dissipate the thing. It had worked when the spirit was in its owl form, but it was stronger like this. Sam managed to grab the weapon, aim, and fire within seconds, hitting his target's center mass.

Not even a shimmer. He was so screwed.

_Think, Sam._

The creature was taking its time, playing with him. Sam got to his feet and grabbed a handful of shells from his pocket. Maybe silver. He dropped the red iron shells to the ground and loaded the yellow ones.

In a blur of motion, the thing was in front of him, knocking the shotgun from his grasp. One massive hand gripped his forearm, yanked him around, pulled him back against its chest, and squeezed.

The air left Sam's lungs in a _whoosh_. He struggled in its grip but could barely move. Couldn't even head-butt the thing because it was too tall; his head was tucked under its chin.

Panic set in. He couldn't _breathe_. He kicked back hard but the thick legs didn't budge. His strength was waning, the forest growing dark. _No. Please…_

And just when Sam was certain he was going to die, the creature let go.

Sam's legs folded under him, depositing him at its feet. His mind screamed for him to get up, run, but his body shuddered with coughs and heaving breaths as he tried to drag air into his lungs. He felt the hand wrap around his wrist, his arm pull taut, the ground moist beneath him as he was dragged over it.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought, _dragging's good_. _Leaves a trail._ When he was a kid, he'd never won at hide and seek. Somehow, his brother always knew where to look.

Dean would find him. He always did.

The thing stopped, dropping Sam before it lumbered away, feet crunching in the dried pine needles.

Sam risked opening his eyes, watching the swirling treetops until it made him dizzy. He closed his eyes again, took a breath. He had to move, had to get out of there.

Stifling a groan, he rolled onto his stomach, maneuvered his arms beneath him, and pushed up. And nearly collapsed. His muscles screamed in protest, but he managed to get to his knees. _Come on, move._

A massive hand fisted at the back of his neck, grabbing jacket, shirt, and hair. Sam winced, a cry pushing its way out through clenched teeth. One powerful shove had him facedown in the dirt again, and a knee at the base of his spine held him there. It captured his hands and wound what felt like thick rope around his wrists.

"No," Sam gasped out, struggling furiously. But he couldn't break the hold, couldn't get away. "No!"

It tied his ankles next, then used his bound hands to haul him up. It lifted him with ease, turned, then took a few steps before dropping him on his feet again.

But…the ground felt different beneath his sneakers. Sam looked down and his breath caught.

He was standing up to his hips in a large, urn-shaped basket. A basket spattered with dark spots. Blood. The blood of previous victims. Sam could smell it, and his stomach flipped.

He shook his head. Then, drawing a deep breath, he yelled as loud as he could, "Dean! Dad! Help m—"

Its hand covered his mouth, pulling him back once again against the barrel chest. It lowered its head close to his. "_Shhhhhh_."

Sheer terror gripped Sam as the cold, unnatural breath whispered past his ear, stirred his hair. His struggles became frantic, and he made as much noise as he could from behind the muffling hand, hoping, _praying_, someone would hear.

Snippets of information flashed through his head from the research he'd done, each one increasing his fear. The _Nchaa Bu's_ victims were food. It _ate_ them. But not before…before…

Oh, God. Sam screamed, trying to wrench his head free.

Suddenly, the hand dropped away. With very little effort, the creature turned him in its grip. Sam drew a breath, but before he could call out, it backhanded him across the face.

Sam tasted blood, his vision whiting out. He felt himself sinking, dropping deeper into the fetid basket.

A foul-tasting cloth was jammed into his mouth and pulled tight, knotted at the base of his skull. His face and head throbbed with the frenzied beat of his heart.

He didn't have the strength left to resist when it pushed him down completely inside. Sam groaned in protest, swallowing against the nausea that churned his stomach.

The basket jostled as it was lifted, carried. The movement made him even sicker. When the darkness closed in, Sam fought it. He felt the wetness slide over his cheeks as, despite his efforts, his eyes blinked closed, part of him wondering if he would ever wake up again, the other part terrified he would.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

_I was headed off to bed after a long day, but... This is for you, Kat. :)_

**Chapter 3**

Dean listened with rapt attention as Councilman Paul translated for Joseph. The old man spoke English but had lapsed into his native tongue to tell the story. Dean recognized a lot of what Sammy had told him, but this guy had personal stories from people who'd been there.

According to Sam's research, there was no way to kill the thing…a hundred years before. But with today's weapons? They should be able to blow the sucker away. It was worth a shot, literally. He reserved his thoughts, though, out of respect. He could ask Dad later. Maybe—

A call sounded across camp. Dean felt the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck rise at the tone. Something was wrong.

Everyone in the wickiup was silent, listening.

The cry came again, closer this time, more distinct.

Councilman Paul shot to his feet. "Victoria," he said, and bolted outside.

Dean exchanged a quick look with his father and knew they were both thinking the same thing. Sam. They followed Paul outside, Dean grabbing the shotgun on the way as John pulled the .45 he kept tucked at the small of his back.

Victoria was running full tilt, headed right for them, her cries drawing the attention of everyone in the encampment.

Fear knotted Dean's stomach as Paul caught his daughter. Victoria clung to him, gasping. Her panted words froze the blood in his veins.

"…told me to…run…He tried…but it…it…"

"Son of a bitch," John said on a breath. "Where?"

Victoria pointed, too winded to speak.

Dean didn't wait. He took off.

He'd seen where she'd come from, had a vague idea where she and Sam had gone. He might have heard his father call his name, but he didn't care. If Sam was in danger…

Dean tore across the plain, legs pumping. Fear stole the air from his lungs, and fire spread across his shoulders, but he pushed himself, barreling into the forest heedless of his own safety.

"Sam!" he bellowed. He stood heaving for breath, listening, but could barely hear a thing over the pounding in his ears. Maybe it was his heart, or maybe it was the running feet that came up behind him. Dad; he recognized the cadence.

"Damn it, Dean!"

Dean ignored his father's anger, knowing it was born of fear. "We gotta find him, Dad," he said. "If that thing has him—"

"I know," John cut him off, then yelled, "Sammy!"

Dean scanned the area, looking for a clue, a sign, _anything_.

"We were over here," Victoria said behind him, and realized the others had caught up with him.

Dean glanced back long enough to see where she was headed, then bolted in that direction. The signs of struggle were obvious to his trained eye. A hissed curse behind him told him his father was seeing the same thing.

There was a spot of red to the right and Dean tapped his father's arm with the back of his hand. Four long strides took Dean to the spot, and he stared down at the cluster of red shotgun shells. "Think it means something?" he asked around the lump in his throat.

John's eyes narrowed. He took a step to the right before crouching and reaching into the dried pine needles to extract a spent shot case. A red one. "I think it means iron didn't work."

Dean ran a hand over his face, letting it linger over his mouth as he tried to think. There was no sign of Sam, and that could only mean—

"John."

Dean looked up. Paul was standing several feet away, Sam's shotgun in his hands.

Dean felt like someone had punched him in the gut.

John shot to his feet and stalked to the councilman's side, but Dean just couldn't get his feet to move. How could he have let this happen? He was responsible for the kid. This was his fault. He should have—

"Over here." Charlie's voice this time.

Forcing himself into motion, Dean moved numbly to the young man who was hunkered down, examining the ground.

Charlie pointed.

The trail was clear, and Dean's instincts kicked in, snapping him into focus. He followed the imprints the huge feet had left in the earth. He calculated the size of the thing that had left those footprints behind. The answer made his mouth go dry.

But hope bolstered him. In human form, the thing would lead them right to—

The tracks disappeared. Just vanished. As if the thing had been swallowed up by a black hole or something. And it had taken Sammy with it.

"Dean."

He turned at his father's call, seeing how desperately Dad was trying to keep the fear from his voice, his eyes.

"We need to head back," John said. "We need weapons and—"

"I'll stay," Dean said, turning back to the prints.

"Absolutely not."

"Dad, we can't just leave."

"He's not here, Dean. He could be anywhere."

"Then I'll keep looking." He started off, following the route the prints would have taken, until a hand closed around his arm, bringing him up short and yanking him around. Dean winced as his stitches pulled.

"I said, we're going back. Now."

"But, Dad—"

"We're wasting time. Paul has maps, and we need more weapons. You really think that shotgun is gonna do it? It obviously didn't help Sam."

His father's grip verged on painful, and Dean swallowed.

"I'm not losing you, too," John added, his voice a little less harsh.

Dean looked into his father's eyes, his mouth open, but the protest died on his lips. Sam might be lost, but he wasn't _lost_. He wanted so desperately to tell Dad that because Dean needed to hear it, even if it was his own voice saying it. But all he could do was nod, his body and mind numb.

With a final glance over his shoulder at the damned footprints, Dean followed his father.

**oooOOOooo**

The walk back to their cabin had given Dean time to think, to clear his head. The numbing fog was gone, replaced by a simmering anger that fueled his resolve.

Before they'd split up, their hosts heading back to their encampment to find the maps, Charlie had mentioned the caves. Apparently, Joseph hadn't gotten to that part of the story. According to legend, this Big Owl thing holed up in a cave. Problem was, as Charlie had explained, caves dotted the mountains in the entire area. Freakin' hundreds of them.

But somewhere in there, a memory stirred. Something Sammy had said.

Dean burst through the cabin door and headed straight for his brother's notes. He grabbed Sam's journal and flipped through it. Sam said—

An envelope fell from between the pages and hit the table.

Dean froze. The red "S" logo with the Evergreen caught his eye first, then the return address. Stanford University. When had—?

Keenly aware of movement behind him as Dad gathered their weapons, Dean tucked the letter into his pocket and focused on what he needed, what he knew was there somewhere.

"All right, let's go," his father called from the door.

"Wait," Dean replied, distracted.

"Excuse me?"

Dean tried to ignore the stunned tone. John Winchester was not used to being disobeyed, especially not by his eldest. "Just…gimme a sec, Dad." He shuffled through more papers, making a mess of Sam's meticulous research. "There's something here, I know it. Sam told me about these…these bones…"

"Bones? Dean, we—"

Dean stopped, straightening to face his father. "No, Dad, listen. Please. Sam told me. He found this article about some bones that were found near a series of caves around here. They thought they might have been from some ancient burial ground, but that wasn't the case. They estimated the bones were about seventy years old. That was thirty years ago."

"A hundred years." John put the pieces together.

"They found teeth marks in the bones."

"Sammy found this?"

Dean nodded.

"Did it say where?"

"Yeah. General area." Dean went back to searching as his father approached the table. "It's gotta be here…" A word caught his eye, and he stopped shuffling to read further.

"Dean?" John took a step closer. "What is it?"

Dean swallowed. "The, uh…this thing, it…hunts for food—"

"We knew that. That's why we need to get mo—"

"It tortures its victims first, Dad!" Dean blurted out. He couldn't help it. Sam had neglected to tell him that little tidbit of information. Not that it had been relevant to finding the thing, but now…

His father's Adam's apple bobbed. Then John's hand came up, palm to Dean's jaw, fingers curling at the back of his neck. Dean looked into eyes that were suddenly compassionate, the eyes of a father he'd known long ago. "We'll find him, son."

Dean thought he felt the slightest tremor in the grip before it fell away.

"You got that info?"

There were times Dean wished he could flip a switch like that. Like now; it was hard to see with the sheen coating his eyes. He blinked them clear, took a breath, and shuffled through the papers. "Here." He lifted the copied article. "I figured with the tribe's maps—"

"Good. Let's go." John turned and strode to the door.

Dean scooped up his brother's journal and notes and tucked them into his bag. Sam would have mentioned anything of importance, but…

Dean hurried out the door.

_We'll find him, son._

It was a promise he expected his father to keep.

**oooOOOooo**

Sam startled awake with a jerk. With consciousness came pain; the left side of his face throbbed, and his head was pounding. What…?

He blinked into darkness, panic clutching his stomach as he tried to remember what had happened. He was lying on his side, and as his vision focused, he realized there was ambient light, giving him a dim view of his surroundings. A cave. He was in a cave.

Sam moved to sit up, but couldn't draw his arms from behind his back.

Oh, God.

Breath panted out of him as memory returned. Big Owl. And he was in its lair. Suddenly, Sam wished he didn't know as much as he did about his captor. It froze him with fear, clouded his mind—

_Stop. Think. Use what you know._

Breathing through his nose, Sam tried to calm down. He listened, straining to hear anything that would alert him to the creature's presence.

Nothing.

With determination, Sam worked his way to sitting on his legs. He tried his bonds again, but they were too tight. The ropes around his ankles were knotted in front, so he couldn't reach them from this position, and the rope was too thick and tight for him to slip his arms to the front. Okay, now what?

Duh. The cave. There had to be a sharp edge somewhere, right? Just a matter of finding it.

Edging closer to the rock wall, Sam brushed his fingers over the surface, searching. He held his breath, said a prayer…

He wasn't sure exactly how long it took, but his knees hurt and he was panting with exertion before he felt a break in the rock that would suffice. With a sigh of relief, Sam angled his body to center the ropes over the jagged edge and began to saw at the bonds.

**oooOOOooo**

Dean wiped the back of his hand across his brow to stop the sweat from dripping into his eyes. He glanced at the faces around him in the stifling wickiup and waited. He paced anxiously, needing to be out looking for Sam. He knew they had to do this, he really did, but Sam was in danger. Dean should be out there searching. Here he just felt…useless.

Councilman Paul's finger hovered over a spot on the map, then landed. "Those bones were found here."

Dean leaned in for a closer look but left room for his father.

"Well, that narrows it down a bit, doesn't it?" John asked hopefully.

"Significantly." Paul nodded. "There are only about six caves in that area. If it's the right one."

"It's gotta be," John said on a sigh.

"Sammy wouldn't have copied it if it wasn't important," Dean said urgently.

"Time to go."

Dean turned to see Joseph leaving the _wickiup_, and his heart sank. Charlie followed his grandfather outside, but John held back, grabbing Paul's arm. Apparently, he had the same concern.

"No offense," he said once it was only the three of them, "but isn't he going to slow us down? Paul, I—"

Paul rolled up the map and handed it to John. "It's three hours' journey from here. Go. Find your son. Victoria has horses ready for you. I'll bring Joseph for the ritual. We'll meet up with you." He held out his hand. "Be safe."

John clasped the hand, shook it. "Thank you." Then he quickly turned and headed out.

Dean breathed a sigh of relief. _We're coming, Sammy_.

**oooOOOooo**

_Come on._

Sam panted against the gag with exertion, sweat beading his forehead and trickling down his temples. He had no idea how long he'd been at it. He couldn't even tell if he'd made any progress. But one thing was sure: his captor wasn't going to leave him alone for long. The thought that that thing could show up any minute gave Sam the desperation he needed to keep going, no matter how much his muscles screamed in protest. He sawed and tugged, hoping for some give, some sign his efforts weren't useless.

With a frustrated cry, Sam paused, leaning his head back again the rock wall. His chest heaved for breath, and he closed his eyes.

When the pounding of his heart wasn't so loud in his ears, Sam heard it. A sound like...scraping.

He held his breath, listening. He knew that sound. Metal to metal, knife to steel. Except…

When his father or brother sharpened knives, it was steady, quick and deliberate. This was slow, drawn out. Like it was meant to instill fear. Like he was meant to hear it.

He shuddered, his chest compressing. It was hard to breathe. Sam renewed his efforts to fray the rope, trying to stay calm. Trying.

The scraping sound continued past the point that Sam's nerves were as raw as the skin of his wrists. Fear began to choke him; doubt clouded his thoughts. And just when that doubt threatened to overwhelm him, Sam felt something give.

He bit down hard on the foul-tasting gag as he worked his wrists and felt the rope shift, loosen. He slipped one hand free, then shoved the bonds off the other. Numb fingers fumbled at the knot of the gag but couldn't undo it. Frustrated, Sam simply yanked the thing from his mouth and let it hang around his neck. He leaned forward to get at the ropes binding his ankles, his shoulders and arms protesting after having been forced back for so long.

The minutes dragged on, but finally the knot slipped and Sam was free. Pushing himself up on coltish legs, he spit the awful taste from his mouth. He grabbed hold of the cave wall for support and listened.

The scraping noise had stopped.

Sam shivered, his body beginning to tremble. At least with the sound, he had an idea where his captor was. Without it…

Sam guessed which direction the sound had emanated from, and went the other way.

His first steps were unsteady, his legs shaking beneath him, but adrenaline lent him strength. Problem was, he had no idea whether he was heading for the mouth of the cave or into its depths. Here, the ground was level. The light came from torches sparingly placed along the path, held in place by a pile of rocks. The flickering flames threw odd shadows onto the walls, more than once causing Sam to start in fear. He swore he could hear his heart pounding against his ribcage and wondered if the creature could hear it, too.

The passage split; Sam felt his stomach drop. Which way? He couldn't afford to waste time. What would Dean do? _Eeny, meeny, miney, mo_ came to mind. Well, that's what Dean would _say_, anyway. But there was always a method to his madness. Even when he was winging it…

Matches.

Sam dug into the right front pocket of his jeans, saying a silent prayer that his captor hadn't thought to empty them. His fingers closed around the matchbook cover, and he drew it out with a sigh of relief. Then paused. Lighting a match in a dark cave was pretty much a great big _come-and-get-me_ beacon. But he needed to know. He stepped into the left passage and pulled a match from the pack.

A breeze mingled with the sweat on his face, giving him a chill. It also gave him the information he needed. Sam stuffed the matchbook back into his pocket as he moved along the wall, using it as a guide. It was darker here, fewer torches. He didn't know if that was good or bad. He divided his attention between both ahead and back, swallowing down the lump in his throat that was getting bigger with each step. He had to be going the right way. He had to.

He hoped Victoria had gotten away. Dean and Dad would be looking for him. But…how would they know where to look? Sam quelled the rising panic at that thought and pushed on.

A noise sounded behind him. Like…the tripping of a stone. Sam froze, pressing his back against the wall, and listened.

For a moment, there was no sound at all. Then a horrible screech rent the air, bouncing off the walls in every direction. It was the cry of the owl, only it was coming from its human form. For a moment Sam was unable to move. It knew he'd escaped, and it would be coming after him.

On the verge of hyperventilating, Sam forced himself to breathe through his nose, to calm down. Move; he had to move.

Somehow, he managed to get his feet working beneath him, slowly at first, carefully. The torches had become scarce, yet there was still light. Sam prayed that meant he was close to another source, like the mouth of the cave. His feet moved faster, fear pushing caution aside as desperation kicked in.

Low-hanging rock created a treacherous passage; Sam had to crawl past several. How had the thing gotten him in there in the first place?

He ducked through another opening and pressed against the wall, trying to catch his breath and focus. It was cold. There was the sound of trickling water from somewhere farther back. This couldn't be the right way.

Sam turned, and something crunched beneath his foot. Then the smell hit him. Not as powerful as he'd encountered before, but still, he knew the smell of blood.

As his eyes adjusted and focused, he saw the source. Hanging by ropes from wooden crossbeams were about a half-dozen bodies, stripped of most of their flesh. Below the bodies lay a bed of bones that seemed to cover the entire floor.

Sam had found the creature's larder.

A shudder coursed through him, and with a gasp, Sam realized he hadn't been breathing. He _couldn't_ breathe. Couldn't draw enough air into his lungs.

Sam backed away, hands searching behind him for the way out. Somehow, he found the opening and scrambled out.

Sam hurried along the passage as quickly as he dared. He couldn't hear much past the pounding in his ears, but he knew his captor couldn't be far.

The passage seemed to lighten, but he didn't trust his eyes. Sam pushed himself forward, stumbling on the upgrade—

Upgrade? That meant…

Urgency pushed him to the limits of his strength. Almost there. Just a little farther. There was light ahead. Not much, but definitely not the flicker of torchlight. Sam nearly cried out in relief; he could see it. The mouth of the cave was no more than twenty feet away, its opening obscured by a curtain of greenery. A cool breeze whispered past his ear; even the air wanted to escape this place.

Leaves swirled around him, creating tiny tornados at his feet. Sam breathed in hungrily as he clawed his way through the tangle of vines. The breath left his lungs in an explosion of breath as he burst into the forest.

He was free.

Now, where should he go? He winced into the daylight, willing his eyes to adjust. It didn't matter. He just needed to get away. When he was far enough away, he would worry about it.

Sam turned…and slammed into a solid obstacle that reeked of blood, like a butcher.

He rebounded off the thing and fell back, hitting the ground on his backside. His gaze followed the trunk-like legs up as far as he dared as he scrambled back. "No!" Sam raged through clenched teeth. He'd gotten so far.

Sam rolled onto his hands and got his feet beneath him. But he only made it a few steps before he was drawn back by the force of something around his neck. With a choked cry, he reached up, desperate to relieve the pressure.

The gag, he realized. He'd left it hanging around his neck, and now the creature was using it to choke him. Sam managed to slip several fingers between it and his neck, relieving some of the pressure. But it wasn't enough. His vision was beginning to darken. His brother and father would never find him in time, unless…

If he let go of the cloth, he would only have a few seconds, but there was no other way. Sam let one arm drop, then the other, bringing them together just long enough to unclasp his watch.

Darkness closed in, his legs grew weak. The pressure lessened slightly, the garrote loosening a moment before tightening again as the thing dragged him back toward the cave. The last thing Sam felt was the watch slipping from his wrist…

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

_Hi y'all! Bad allergies and Benadryl knocked me out, so I didn't have a chance to look this over last night. But here's the next chapter! Thanks so much for the awesome reviews. I really appreciate it! I also just wanted to mention that in this chapter, Dean rides a horse. I wrote this a while ago, before we found out in __**Frontierland**__ that neither of the boys ride. Sigh. Please forgive me. Hope you enjoy!_

**Chapter 4**

It hurt. Worse than Dad's most strenuous workouts. He'd known he'd feel the burn of the push-ups for a day or so, but this… Every muscle in his neck, his back, and across his shoulders was on fire. His arms, too. Sam groaned, and it sounded funny. Kind of like…an echo…

Sam opened his eyes, lifted his head from where it had lolled forward, and peered into the darkness.

Dark. Cold. Echo. Cave…

Big Owl.

It came back to him in a dizzying flood of memory, and he staggered, losing his footing. The pain intensified, muscles pulling taut. It was another moment before Sam realized why.

His arms were stretched up above his head, bound wrists secured by another rope that disappeared into the darkness above. He got his feet under him and pushed up, but it was only mild relief. His feet touched the floor, but there was no slack. Sam was stripped to the waist and hanging like… He swallowed, but it lodged in his throat. Like those bodies in the larder.

Nausea threatened to choke him. Sam knew what would be next, and the thought stole his breath, made his head swim. He'd read the stories, but what was worse were the images those stories had created in his mind. The deadly sharp knife stained with the blood of its previous victims; thousands of tiny cuts to the skin, inflicted with precision to cause the most pain; victims lasting for days as the flesh was flayed from their bodies…

The smallest of whimpers escaped as Sam struggled furiously against the ropes until his already-raw wrists were slick with blood. The bonds were too tight, and there was so little strength left in his arms. "Please," whispered past his lips.

A noise caught Sam's attention, and he lifted his head, his gaze darting about the cave in search of the source. Gooseflesh puckered his skin as he waited, listened.

It stepped from the shadows—or maybe coalesced—not twelve feet away. Sam's tongue darted out over his lips, terror making his heart pound frantically. Somehow, Sam remembered not to look into its eyes…not a difficult feat when there was a huge knife in its right hand that drew his full attention.

"No," Sam said on a breath, his head shaking in denial. This wasn't happening. He'd been in some tight spots before, had his life threatened before, but nothing like this. Where were Dean and Dad? Did they even know where he was? Would they find him before it was too late?

Nchaa Bu flickered and took a lumbering step forward. But in the next blink of the eye, it was standing right before Sam.

Sam could feel its gaze, and he shrank from it, but one backward step put him off-balance. There was nowhere to go.

It began to speak in a language Sam didn't understand, in a voice that sounded like it hadn't spoken in years. The chant sent a shiver through Sam, its—

The chant. The _song_.

It had worked for Victoria. Not for long, but it could buy him some time. Only…he wasn't sure he remembered the words…

Voice quaking, Sam began to sing.

It was a moment before he realized the creature had stopped its chant. Its head canted to one side and it flickered.

Bolstered by the reaction, Sam pushed himself upright and sang louder…until the massive hand sealed his mouth once more. Sealed his fate.

Sam's cry was lost against it. He saw the knife lift, felt it touch the skin of his chest. The blade was so sharp, he barely felt the cut. Nor the second or third. But by the fourth, his brain was beginning to register the pain. He could feel himself trembling, feel the warm blood trickling over his cool skin. He wrenched, trying to get away, but it only made the pain worse. It wasn't stopping. No end in sight.

_Dean, where are you? Dad! Help me, please!_

But he was alone.

**oooOOOooo**

Dean cursed under his breath. They'd torn across the plain at a full gallop, moving as fast as they could across even ground, but now they were in the mountains. The rock-strewn landscape was dotted with trees; one false step and no more horse.

They'd reached the place where the bones had been found and searched two caves with no luck at all. What were the odds they'd find Sam before it was too late? No, Dean couldn't think about that. They would find Sammy. They just would.

Dean blinked back to the present when his horse stopped. Up ahead, Dad had the map open and was working figures. It always amazed Dean that his father was so good with maps and coordinates. Military training, sure, but it still seemed to come so easy for him.

"This is it," John said, his eyes roaming the area like he was memorizing it. "The next cave should be in this area. Be careful."

Dean nodded. He slid from the saddle, sawed-off gripped firmly, and let his gaze travel along the ground. Maybe it had left tracks here, too. He pulled on every tracking skill his father had taught him, but there was nothing.

_Nothing_…

Dean straightened and yelled, "_Sam_?"

"Dean!" his father admonished.

Dean spun on him. "Dad, there's no tracks here. I mean nothing. No wildlife of any kind. Something has to be scaring them away." He was certain there was a look of desperation on his face, but at the moment, he didn't care. "Besides, don't we _want_ to get this thing away from Sam?"

John's mouth snapped shut, and he regarded Dean a moment before he finally nodded. Then he bellowed, "Sammy!" He urged his horse forward, heading west where the trees became denser and the jutting rock formations suggested caves.

Dean followed his father's gaze, his chest tightening with anxiety. Could they really be that close? He rounded his Palomino and grabbed a handful of mane, placing one foot in the stirrup.

"Dean!"

Dean looked up in time to see John's mount rear up, tumbling his father from the saddle. John hit the ground hard, but he had a firm grip on his shotgun.

The screech of an owl rent the air, and Dean ducked his head against the piercing noise. His own horse stomped, its ears laid back. Dean barely managed to jump back before a whip of its head yanked the reins from his hands and it took off after the other horse.

Dean took a step toward his dad, but a staying hand stopped him in his tracks.

"Find Sammy," John ordered. "I'll keep this thing busy. Go!"

Dean only hesitated the briefest of moments. Arguing would be a waste of time. He broke into a run and didn't look back.

He ran until he could barely breathe, then pushed himself a little further, until the ground became dangerously rocky and one wrong step would ruin his chances of ever finding his brother.

Gritting his teeth against the burn of pulling stitches on his back, Dean surveyed the area. It was darker here, the trees blotting out most of the sunlight. Small trees and scrub brush littered the forest floor, and small trees grew out of cracks in the rocks. It seemed so alive, and at the same time, deadly silent. Dean moved cautiously. Under normal circumstances, this area of the reservation was off-limits to anyone other than the Apache. The land was pure, unscathed except for one ancient, hungry spirit.

Scattered shafts of sunlight cut through the leaves, creating an eerie haze. Dean headed for the rock formations, his pace quickening with every step.

The blast of a shotgun echoed through the trees, followed by a horrendous screech. But Dad would only be able to hold the thing off for so long.

He scanned the jutting rocks, his heart beating faster with the anxiety. What if this wasn't it? What then?

No. The cave was here somewhere, he just had to find it.

Moss and greenery grew heavily on this side, and Dean pushed against it, making sure there was solid rock on the other side. He took another step, and felt something crunch under his boot. Something not leaves. Looking down, he moved his boot, then crouched to brush away the dried pine needles.

The cracked face of a watch stared back at him. Sam's watch.

"Way to go, Sammy," Dean said, pocketing the timepiece and pushing to his feet. He tore at the tangle of vines. With the sharp angles of the rocks, he might have missed it if not for Sam's clue. And he was fairly certain the kid had left it on purpose.

The mouth of the cave looked like a fissure but widened farther in. This was it, Dean was sure. He pulled the mini Maglite from his pocket and plunged into the darkness.

It was black as pitch at first, until his eyes adjusted. Then he began to make out the interior of the cave, and not just from his light. There was ambient light that seemed to be coming from above, maybe sunlight from a crack somewhere in the cave ceiling. But as he moved in deeper, the torches came into sight, and any doubts he'd had that he was in the right place quickly vanished. Sam was here.

Dean quickened his pace, anxiety pushing him forward. "Sam?" he called in a harsh whisper. Fear made his heart pump faster. What if he was too late? What if Sam was already—?

Passages narrowed, twisted and turned, forked. Which way? Something drew Dean inexplicably to the right. Instinct, or something else? Dean didn't fight it, just went with it, practically jogging now that the cave had opened up. His light swung from side to side, and his eyes followed the beam, scanning, searching. How much time did he have? How long could Dad hold the thing off?

"Sam?" he called, no longer bothering to whisper.

He waited. Listened.

It was cooler here. Very cool, in fact. The sound of flowing water reached Dean's ears. An underground stream, maybe, runoff from the mountains. He headed toward it.

The passage narrowed again, but Dean could see light up ahead. Probably more torches, from the way it bounced off the rock walls.

But when Dean reached the end of the passage, he stopped dead in his tracks, a gasp trapping the air in his lungs. He reached out and grabbed the rock wall for support as his legs wobbled beneath him.

"No." The denial caught in his throat at the sight of his brother.

Sam hung by his wrists in the center of the room, all his weight on his arms since his legs had given out beneath him. His head had dropped forward, chin against his chest that was—Dean swallowed back the nausea—_covered_ in blood.

Dean got his feet moving and took a few staggering steps before finding his equilibrium. A few more steps, and he was standing in front of his brother. He could smell the blood. It mixed with sweat and trickled from what had to be hundreds of small shallow cuts all over Sam's chest _and_ back.

"Sammy…," Dean whispered, blinking the sheen from his eyes in time to see a small droplet of blood track its way from a cut. Sam was still bleeding.

Sam was still _bleeding_.

Dean quickly slipped his Maglite into his pocket, set the sawed-off at his feet, and took his brother's face in his hands. "Sammy?" he urged, carefully lifting the tousled head. There was a gag stuffed in Sam's mouth, and Dean quickly tugged it free. "Sammy, come on…" He gently swiped the sweat-damp hair back from the kid's face, then gave his cheek a tap.

Sam whimpered. The barely audible sound twisted Dean's stomach into knots. Then Sam's lips moved. Dean had to lean in closer to hear what he was saying. Sam's breath ghosted past his ear:

"Stop. Please…"

The plea tore at Dean's heart but also galvanized him into action. "Sammy," he said, louder this time. "It's me. It's Dean. I'm here, kiddo. I'm getting you outta here. You hear me?" He yanked his Bowie knife from its sheath.

Sam picked that moment to open his eyes. "No!" he cried hoarsely, jerking back from the blade.

It took a split-second for Dean to realize what was wrong, and he silently berated himself as he lowered the knife and stepped into Sam's line of vision. "Sam, it's okay. It's me. Hey." He kept his voice low, gentle, hoping to calm his trembling brother.

Head held up between his arms, Sam blinked, his gaze lifting from the blade to Dean's face, eyes squinting in the dimness. "Dean?" he whispered, disbelieving.

Dean offered him the best smile he could muster. "Yeah, it's me, bro. I gotta get you out of here, okay?"

Sam's chest heaved on a sob of relief, and he nodded slowly, his eyes slipping shut.

"Stay with me, Sam." Dean brought the knife up behind his brother, then began sawing at the ropes holding Sam's wrists above his head. It was a stretch, but on his toes, he could just reach. With his left hand, Dean held onto Sam's arm, trying to keep him steady, but the small, pained gasps he heard drove him to work faster.

The rope was just starting to fray when Sam's head dropped onto his shoulder. Dean let go of his arm long enough to clasp the nape of his neck, offer what comfort he could. But he had to get them out of there, now. Dean went back to sawing.

One by one, the strands snapped until a final, powerful slice cut completely through.

Sam dropped like a stone.

Dean followed him down, grabbing him out of instinct, a move that tore another cry of pain from Sam's ravaged throat. Holding him upright so no dirt would get into the cuts, Dean whispered apologies and tried to adjust his grip to a less painful one. There weren't many options. He settled for leaning his brother sideways against him so that Sam's right arm took the pressure, his head tucked under Dean's chin. Then Dean went to work on the bonds around Sam's wrists. It was difficult using only one hand, and at the awkward angle, there was the risk of cutting Sam. But he had no idea where the creature was; he had to get his brother out of there _now_.

The inch-thick rope finally snapped, and Dean hurriedly unwound the length, wincing at the damage that lay beneath. Sam was taking hitching, shallow breaths. Anything more probably hurt like hell.

Dean gave one hunched shoulder a shake. "Hey, little brother. Can you walk?" His eyes searched the shadows as he waited for an answer, his ears straining to hear any sound that might alert him to danger. Then his gaze settled back on his brother, and he gave the kid a nudge. "Sam?"

Finally, he got a nod.

Dean felt around for the sawed-off, and got a firm grip on it before moving Sam. There was no way to do this without causing his brother more pain. Dean got his feet beneath him and crouched on his haunches. "Ready?" he asked.

Another nod.

Dean laid the shotgun across his legs long enough to draw Sam's arm across his shoulders, then picked up the weapon and steeled himself. _Here goes_. He lifted slowly, his legs shaking with the effort. Sammy might be a beanpole, but he sure weighed more than he used to.

The kid held his breath, trying to push up with legs that weren't cooperating and pawing at Dean's shirt with a hand that refused to close into a fist. At the moment, Dean was doing all the work, and that suited him just fine as long as they got the hell out of there. He got a firm grip on the waistband of Sam's jeans and tried to keep his arm as far away as possible from Sam's back. It was awkward, but Sam was in enough agony as it was without Dean aggravating it.

They started out slowly, step by agonizing step. Dean clenched his teeth as the pulled stitches tore on his shoulders. Blood or sweat trickled down his back, maybe both, but he plowed ahead, his only goal to get Sammy away, to the safety of his family. He should have never let the kid go out on his own—

Before them, the passage split. Dean hadn't seen that on the way in. He needed his Zippo…which was stuffed in his back pocket. Damn it. Okay. If he just—

Sam murmured something.

"What?" Dean leaned his head closer to hear.

"Lef…pass'ge."

"Good job, Sammy," he said, relieved.

Dean didn't care about the use of the nickname, and neither, apparently, did Sam. He'd finally managed to get a grip on Dean's shirt, and was in enough control of his legs now to support at least some of his weight. It was slow going, but when Dean saw the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, he understood exactly what the saying meant. It spurred him forward.

They broke out into the woods, and Dean paused for a moment to breathe in the fresh air. Sam still reeked of blood, so it was a good thing the area was clear of predators.

Except for the one standing directly in front of them. Big Owl.

Sam backpedaled, nearly throwing Dean off balance.

Dean lifted the sawed-off and fired.

There was another report, too loud to be an echo, on the tail of his own. When the creature disappeared, Dean saw his father standing a few feet away, lowering his own weapon.

John nodded at him, then his eyes shifted to Sammy. He stiffened, but only for an instant as soldier overrode father. They weren't out of the woods yet, in any sense.

John covered the distance between them in just a few strides and swept Sam up into his arms. Sam's cry of pain prompted a heartfelt "I'm sorry, son" from Dad as Dean pried his brother's fingers from his t-shirt.

"We have to move," John said urgently. "It'll be back."

As his father carried Sam away, Dean became aware of the others. Paul, Joseph, and Charlie had arrived and were busy setting up the ritual that would banish the creature for another hundred years. The councilman and Charlie paused in their work to glance his way, probably wondering if Sam was alive.

Dean offered them a nod of thanks, of assurance. They could take it however they wanted. Right now, he needed to be with Sam. He turned and jogged after his father.

Someone had rounded up their horses. With a jerk of his head, John directed Dean into the saddle. Dean obeyed, then waited as his father leaned his head closer to Sam's.

"Sammy," John said gently, "we need to get you back to camp. Dean's gonna take you on horseback, okay?"

There was no response at first, then Sam's eyes opened. "Dad?" he asked as if he wasn't sure.

John nodded. "It's okay, Sammy. You're gonna be okay." His gaze shifted to Dean. "You ready?"

Dean hooked his right leg for support and leaned to the left to grab Sam under his arms as his father lifted. It was awkward, made even more difficult as the horse shifted, the scent of blood making it uneasy. Sam bit his lip, squeezing his eyes shut.

Finally, he was settled in front of Dean, sidesaddle, his shoulder once again leaned into Dean, head resting on Dean's shoulder as he panted for breath.

John paused, still holding onto Sam's calves as though he was unwilling to let his youngest out of his sight again. Then he shrugged out of his button-down shirt and handed it up to Dean. As Dean draped the soft, light flannel over his brother's shoulders, John unwound the reins from an anchoring branch and handed them up as well. "Take him back. Paul said their shaman is waiting."

Dean nodded, easing his arms around his brother and taking the leather straps in one hand. He heard Sam's quiet gasp at the contact with his back, and winced at the sound. This was not going to be easy on either of them. Looking down at his father, Dean tried to keep the anxiety from his voice as he asked, "What about you?"

"We're gonna end this thing. Should be back before sunrise. Go."

"Be careful," Dean offered.

"You, too," John said. "Take care of your brother."

"Yes, sir."

John stepped back as Dean kicked his horse into motion. The animal seemed relieved to be on the move, headed away from that area. Dean couldn't agree more.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

_Morning, y'all! I present to you the final chapter of Nchaa Bu. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for sticking with me through this story, and for taking the time to review. I appreciate it! You guys are awesome!_

**Chapter 5**

The journey back seemed so much longer than the ride out. Maybe it was the slower pace Dean set in order to keep his flagging brother in the saddle, or maybe it was the fact that every step the horse took seemed to cause Sam more pain.

Twenty minutes into the trip, Sam finally fell asleep. Or passed out. Good for Sam, not so good for Dean. He shifted his brother so he was leaning forward a little, his head lying against Dean's left shoulder so Dean's arm wasn't causing friction against the wounds on his back. In the orange glow of sunset, the kid looked ten times worse than he had in the torchlight. Dean tried to avert his gaze but couldn't. Couldn't stop thinking about what had been done to his little brother. What Sam had endured. What he'd barely escaped.

His mind supplying him with horrible images, Dean lost all track of time.

Sam twitched, whimpering softly in his sleep. A hint of the nightmares to come? Dean let his head drop on top of his brother's, breathing through his mouth instead of his nose because the smell of blood was making him nauseated. No, not the blood exactly. The fact that it was _Sam's_ blood. Dean wished there was time to stop and bandage the kid up, but they had to get back before dark.

They made it with little time to spare. Not that they had to worry; Big Owl should be history at that point. But without the warming rays of the sun, Sam's trembling had worsened. Shock mostly, but up there it got cold at night, even in the middle of summer.

As they entered the camp, they were converged upon. Victoria was among those who came to meet them, and Dean recognized a couple of the others, but everything happened too fast. Someone took the reins, while others eased Sam down from the saddle and whisked him away before Dean even had his feet on the ground.

Irrational panic stole his breath. No one here would hurt Sam, but still… Right now, Dean didn't want his brother out of his sight. He searched over the heads of those still surrounding him, trying to see where they had taken Sam. Questions were being fired at him, but they all sounded distant, tinny, like he'd been deafened by some blast. Where was Sam? He needed to find his brother.

Someone touched his arm. Dean looked down.

Victoria at his side. "Come with me," she said.

He nodded, but it took a tug on his arm to get him moving. They broke free of the crowd and headed down the center of camp, the same route Victoria had run when she'd returned to tell them Sam was in trouble. Had that been only earlier that day? It seemed so long ago.

"Drink this," she said, offering him a cup that had been made from a dried gourd.

Water, Dean realized. He drank the whole thing down. Craved more but wouldn't ask; he had something more urgent on his mind. "Where's Sam?"

"This way. Don't worry," Victoria soothed, guiding him past several huts, then turning off the main path. She led him to a wickiup set apart from the others. Fine wisps of smoke trailed from the doorway lit by the glow of a lantern inside.

_"Dean!"_

Sam's cry gripped his heart, setting his feet moving. Dean ran the rest of the way.

He burst through the doorway to see Sam on his knees, two men trying to hold him still as the cuts on his back were cleaned. Sam struggled in their grip, trying to escape the pain.

"Let him go," Dean demanded, stepping closer.

Sam's head snapped up at the sound of Dean's voice, and he called out again, raw need and desperation in his tone. Tears pooled in his eyes as he tried to get up, tried to get to Dean, but the men didn't release him.

A lump lodged firmly in his throat, Dean quickly closed the gap and dropped to his knees in front of his brother. He caught Sam's gaze with his own, holding it. "I said, let him go." He really didn't care if it was disrespectful.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw the shaman nod, and Sam was instantly released. Shaking hands encircled Dean's biceps, fingers tightening, releasing, then tightening again as if Sam needed to make sure Dean was really there. His expression held uncertainty and fear, his gaze never leaving Dean's.

Dean held onto him, silent and steady.

Slowly, Sam's breathing evened out, and the panic faded from his eyes. He looked pale and drawn, like he would fall over at any moment.

Dean gripped his brother's arms tighter, feeling Sam sink a little with the support. Dean was keenly aware the shaman was watching them. "Sammy, this here's the doc. He's gonna fix you up, okay?"

"Shaman," Sam corrected softly.

"Frickin' know-it-all," Dean teased.

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

The shaman cleared his throat.

Dean glanced his way sheepishly. "Sorry."

After eyeing them another moment or two, the man said, "You may stay."

Dean gave him a nod; there was no way in hell he was leaving his brother now, permission or not. He focused on Sam. "You did good, Sammy."

Sam tensed at the sound of trickling water behind him, steeling himself. "What?"

"Your research. It's how we found you. Remember you told me about the bones?" Dean kept talking, giving Sam a steady dialogue to focus on.

Sam bit his lip and closed his eyes, but he was listening, holding onto Dean's words, to Dean, as though his life depended on it.

Dean didn't mention the letter. This was not the time or the place. Sam's grip on him was painfully tight, but the kid made little noise other than a few sharp intakes of breath. "Just a little longer, Sammy."

Sam managed a nod, his tongue darting over his lips.

The shaman used what looked like a chamois to dry Sam's back, then looked up at Dean. "Lay him down now."

Dean had to pry himself from his brother's grip, but he stayed in contact with him as he shuffled on his knees so he was behind Sam. The cuts were much more visible now, angry red, and far too many to count. But at least the blood was gone. The sight of it reignited Dean's anger at the thing that had done this to his brother, but he kept it from his voice. "Lie down, Sam."

Sam reached back, steadying himself with his hands on the floor as he got his legs out from under him. He grit his teeth and eased himself back until he was propped up on his elbows, then paused to take a breath.

Beneath them was a mound of thick, soft pelts. Dean cupped the back of Sam's head and helped him the rest of the way down as the kid's waning strength finally gave out on him. Dean sat back on his legs, his knees just touching the top of Sam's head. He could see better now, quite literally watching over his brother as the shaman continued his ministrations.

Sam flinched, gravity tugging a tear from the corner of one eye. Dean caught it with a thumb and swiped it away, his other hand absently stroking over Sam's hair like he'd done when Sam was little and wasn't feeling well.

Moments later, Sam was asleep. Dean breathed a sigh of relief. He slowly drew his hands away, but remained close, just in case.

When his task was complete, the shaman looked up across the room and spoke in Apache. Dean followed his gaze and saw one of the two young men who had been restraining Sam earlier. Had he been there the whole time?

The man nodded and left the wickiup.

"What's going on, Doc?" Dean asked.

"He's going to get supplies. Now that the wounds are cleansed, we need to make sure they don't become infected. The herbs will also help heal."

Before Dean could question the man further, he caught sight of a figure in the doorway. He glanced that way, and felt a surge of relief when he saw his father. "Dad." Dean pushed carefully to his feet, not wanting to disturb Sammy, and hobbled over on legs that had fallen asleep from lack of circulation. Father and son embraced.

"How's Sammy?" John asked, stepping back but keeping a hand on Dean's arm.

"I think he's gonna be okay," Dean said, taking comfort in those words as much as his father seemed to. "He was talking earlier. He's just asleep now."

"Good," John said with a nod. "Good." He patted Dean's arm. "Let's talk outside, okay?"

Dean felt his heart sink. Something was wrong, he could tell. After a quick glance back at his brother, Dean followed his father outside. "Dad, what is it?" he asked once they were a safe distance away. "What happened?"

"Something went wrong. It didn't work."

"The ritual?"

John nodded. "We need to go over it again. We must have missed something. Do you have your weapons?"

"Just my knife," Dean answered warily.

"I'll get you more. Just stay with Sammy. Don't leave his side, understood?"

Dean saw the fear in his father's eyes. "You think it's gonna come after him again."

"I'm not taking any chances." That meant yes.

Anger fused with fear, setting Dean's mouth in a firm, hard line. "There's no way that son of a bitch is getting its hands on Sammy again. No way."

John clapped his arm. "I'll be back with the weapons."

Dean watched him a moment before turning away and hurrying back to Sam. He stepped inside the wickiup to find that the shaman's assistant had returned, and the two men were mixing some concoction in a large bowl. Once it was finished, they spread the mixture onto large strips of what looked like tanned animal hide. Dean stepped a little closer, not wanting to interfere but needing to be with Sam.

The shaman looked up. "Dean. Come here."

Dean obeyed, sitting beside his brother, who was still out for the count.

The shaman rested a hand gently on Dean's shoulder. "We need to wrap him as quickly as possible. He won't be able to move, and he may panic."

That Dean understood, but he had a feeling there was more. "Okay…"

"There will be some…discomfort for Sam."

And there it was. "Discomfort," he repeated. "You mean it's gonna hurt."

"For a few moments. Like putting alcohol on a cut..."

"Yeah, only multiply that by a couple hundred times." Dean fumed silently. He let his head drop and stared down into his brother's pale face. Sam had been hurt before. In their line of work, it was inevitable. But not like this, not torture. Dean just wanted an end to the pain, but it seemed to keep coming. And Dean had no control. _I'm sorry_, _Sammy_. "What do you need me to do?"

"Just be here for him. Your presence calms him."

Dean shifted to his previous spot at Sam's head and nodded that he was ready. He wasn't really, but he wanted to get this over with.

The two men took Sam gently by the arms and lifted him up. Then while the other man held Sam upright, the shaman laid out the coated wrappings so that when they laid Sam back down, he would be on top of them.

Dean tensed when that moment came. Sam stirred, his brow creasing as the wrappings were drawn up around his arms and over his chest, then tucked and secured. On top of those went another layer of skins, these damp with what Dean assumed was warm water from the pot over the small fire on the other side of the hut.

Sam's breathing began to stutter out of him. He frowned, his head rocking from side to side.

Dean began a litany of words he hoped his brother could hear. "It's all right, Sammy. You're all right. I'm here."

Sam began to struggle, weakly at first, then more panicked as he realized he couldn't move his arms. His eyes shot open, wide with terror. "No!"

Dean leaned over him and took his face in his hands, palms against Sam's temples, fingers brushing the rough chin. Keeping the tossing head steady, Dean looked down into glassy hazel eyes. "Sammy, look at me. I'm here, Sam. I'm right here."

Very slowly, the hazel eyes began to clear. Sam blinked up at him, confused. "Hurts," he managed between gasps.

"Just for a little bit, I promise. Just ride it out, Sammy. Come on."

"Dean. Please."

"I know. I know. I got you."

"God…"

"Shh. Just breathe." Dean watched Sam fight for control and felt a surge of pride. And beneath his fingers was the stubble of a days' growth. His little brother wasn't so little anymore, in more ways than just height, a situation Dean hadn't quite gotten used to yet. Not that he'd ever admit that to Sam. The kid didn't need any more ammo; he was obnoxious enough as it was.

But not now. Sam's eyes had slid shut. He twitched and jerked as pain shot from one spot to the next, and he gasped breathlessly, opening his eyes every so often to make sure Dean was still there. And Dean thought he would give anything to have obnoxious Sam back right now.

He wasn't sure exactly how long it took, but Sam finally settled and drifted back to sleep with a sigh.

"He'll rest now," the shaman said. "You should, too."

"I'm not leaving him," Dean said firmly.

The healer smiled as he stood and moved to the doorway. "I didn't say you should." Then he was gone.

Dean sighed, shaking his head. It was a wonder he hadn't shamed his father, the way he'd been speaking to everyone around there. But no one seemed angry with him, so he supposed that was a good sign.

He shifted his legs out from under him with a groan and stretched them out, settling back against one of the wooden supports in the wall. He was tired, but he couldn't sleep. Not yet.

Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter. He stared at it a few moments before pulling the folded paper from the envelope. After a fleeting thought about privacy, he began to read it.

"What's that?"

Dean started at his father's voice, not having heard him approach. Man, he was off his game. Maybe he really did need to rest. He folded the paper with a nonchalant shrug. "Letter from a friend," he lied. No need for Dad to know the truth right now.

"A _girl_friend," his father surmised.

Another shrug.

"You looked upset."

"Long-distance relationship. You know how it goes." He stuffed the letter back in the envelope, making sure the face of it wasn't visible as he tucked it back into his pocket.

Dad seemed to accept his explanation. He stepped inside the hut and crossed to Dean, handing him the duffel. "Here."

"Thanks." Dean took the bag, wincing a little at the pull across his back. He dug around inside, then pulled out a notebook. "I thought I'd go over Sam's research, see if I can find anything else that might be helpful."

"Good."

Dean expected his father to walk away, and when he didn't, Dean looked up at him expectantly.

"Let me see your back," John said, eyes narrowed.

Dean leaned forward a little, turning his head in an effort to see over his shoulder. The movement only made him wince again.

"Take off your shirt."

"Dad—"

"Shirt."

Dean sighed, knowing there was no arguing with his father. He abandoned his search, grabbed the hem of his t-shirt, and pulled it up over his head.

John eased off the bandages, then frowned. "You tore your stitches," Don't think I can fix them. You want me to have the shaman—?"

"No!"

Dad actually chuckled. "I'll see what I can do." He pulled the duffel closer and dug out the first aid kit. "No whiskey this time. Sorry."

"Yeah, whatever." Dean just wanted to get it over with.

As Dad crossed to the fire to get some water from the pot, Dean opened the notebook and scanned the information. His little brother's chicken scratch was hard to read sometimes, but the kid was thorough; no detail was too small. You never knew what would be important. Like, Big Owl was afraid of mice. Who knew?

Dad returned and went to work.

Dean's eyes slid Sam's way, and he tried to remind himself this was nothing compared to what his brother had gone through. He grit his teeth, felt the sweat bead on his forehead and trickle down his face. Dad worked quickly, and Dean was grateful for that. He didn't even realize he was listing until his father gripped his arm to steady him.

"Dean?"

He blinked to focus. "'M all right."

John clapped his arm, then made his way around to Sam and crouched down beside him, laying the back of his hand on Sam's forehead. Satisfied there was no fever, he glided his hand over Sam's hair, letting it linger on the top of his head as he looked his youngest over. "How is he?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Doc said he just needs rest." Dean wiped his face with his t-shirt.

"So do you."

"I'm _fine_."

John gave Sam's head a pat, then pushed to his feet. He took the few paces to Dean and stood over him until Dean looked up. "You're not fine, Dean. You're exhausted. Get some sleep. I'll stay."

"But, Dad, I—"

"I need you sharp, son."

Dean knew his father was right. That didn't make it any easier to give in. "Yes, sir," he finally agreed, but there was no chance he'd fall asleep.

**oooOOOooo**

Dean jerked awake with a sharp intake of breath.

Sammy.

Dean's bleary eyes sought out his brother. Sam lay just as he had been, asleep.

"Morning, son."

Dean turned his head and saw his father sitting across from him, legs drawn up, shotgun at his side. Glancing around, Dean saw they were alone in the wickiup. The fire had burned down, but the embers still glowed. When Dean shifted, he realized there was a blanket on top of him. "How long was I out?"

"You slept through the night. You needed the sleep, Dean. You both did."

"Guess I didn't miss anything."

John shook his head. "It's been quiet. We did something to that thing. Damn near deafened us when it screamed. It flew off somewhere to lick its wounds, but it'll be back." He nodded at Sam's notes. "Any luck?"

Dean shifted to sit, drawing his legs up and resting his arms on his knees in almost a mirror image of his father across the hut. "Not really. Sam would know where to look, but there's a lot of stuff. Hey, did you know it's afraid of mice?"

"Mice. Great."

"John." The councilman was standing in the doorway. "I think we have something."

Dean stood the same time as his father, but John motioned him back. "Stay with your brother."

And as much as Dean wanted to know what was going on, he wasn't about to leave Sam alone. He settled back down to wait.

**oooOOOooo**

By early afternoon, the wraps had been removed, and Sam was awake and sitting up. He was lightheaded and completely exhausted, but the thought of sleep quickened his pulse and made him shiver with dread. What he saw when he closed his eyes… No, sleep was the last thing he wanted right now.

But at least most of the pain was gone. Until he moved too much. The shaman had given him a salve to put on the cuts for the next week, and Victoria had stopped by with a cup of some green stuff for him to drink. It tasted like water flavored with mint, not the worst thing he'd ever tried. She'd gone a few minutes before, leaving him alone with Dean, who was oddly silent.

The quiet was driving Sam nuts. "Where's Dad?" he asked when his throat finally felt up to the task. His voice was still hoarse and ragged, and the sound of it snapped Dean's head up and brought his brother closer. Sam's lingering anxiety wasn't so bad when Dean was near.

"Some meeting," Dean said. "They've been at it for hours. Said they found something to—"

Sam raised his eyebrows. "To…?"

Dean licked his lips before continuing, and Sam felt his stomach clench even before Dean spoke.

"Joseph's ritual didn't work," his brother said quietly, as if that could soften the blow.

The unspoken _It's still out there_ hung heavy in the air. Sam's vision whited out, but he could see the massive figure standing before him, the knife and the pain and—

"Hey, hey, easy, easy."

Sam blinked. Dean was kneeling beside him, one hand on Sam's shoulder, the other taking the cup from Sam's hand. Dean's face was a mask of worry. Sam looked down and saw that his hand was wet. What…?

"You with me, kiddo?"

"Dean?"

Dean's hand slipped up to palm the side of Sam's face. "You scared me there, dude. You just zoned and started shaking. You okay?"

Sam nodded slowly.

"Maybe I should get the doc—"

"Don't leave me!" Okay, he hadn't meant to shout that so loud, but the thought of Dean leaving him alone was just more than he could bear at the moment.

There was concern in Dean's eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. "I'm not gonna leave you, Sammy. I promise. Okay?"

Sam nodded again, this time a little frantically.

"You can let go now," Dean added, a small, teasing grin on his face.

Sam suddenly realized he had a firm hold on his brother's arm. He let go instantly.

"That's some grip you got there, champ." Dean flexed his arm.

Sam offered a small grin of his own. "All those push-ups."

Dean cuffed him lightly and settled closer than he had been before. And for that, Sam was grateful.

Especially when the afternoon sun, beaming right in the door of the hut, threw a long shadow across the floor. Sam tensed, holding his breath as it drew closer, and finally a dark figure appeared in the doorway. Backlit as it was, he couldn't see a face, but he recognized the stance and "Dad" ghosted out with his breath.

John stepped inside the wickiup and moved to Sam's side. His knees cracked as he crouched, one hand settling on the crown of Sam's head. "Hey, Sammy. Good to see you awake."

Sam swallowed and nodded, trying to hold back the emotion that welled inside him. But when his father drew him close, nestling Sam's head into the crook of shoulder and neck, he couldn't keep the tears from welling in his eyes. His father's head settled on top of his in an embrace that avoided his abused skin.

After a moment, John eased him back. His eyes dipped momentarily, narrowed, then lifted again. Sam fidgeted, suddenly self-conscious. He'd avoided looking himself, even though Dean had told him the wrappings had worked wonders and it didn't look that bad at all, considering.

Maybe not, but the memories…

"You okay?" Dad asked.

Sam blinked, focused on his father. "Yeah."

John's hand slid down to the nape of his neck and gave it a squeeze before falling away.

"So, Dad," Dean said, leaning forward, "did you figure it out? Tell me we can take out the son of a bitch."

Sam couldn't help the smile that curled his lips. Dean knew exactly what Sam needed to hear.

But Dad didn't answer right away. His gaze went to Dean, then Sam, then back to Dean.

The smile faded from Sam's face and his stomach flipped with unease.

"Yeah, we figured it out," Dad finally answered.

Dean gestured for their father to continue. "And? So? What do we need? Some plant that only grows on the peak of the White Mountains? Tell me what it is, I'll get it."

"Blood," John said.

Sam watched Dean's jaw work as his brother thought it through. Something was wrong. But Dean caught his gaze, then drew himself up and said, "All right—"

"Dean—" Sam warned.

"How much?" Dean asked their father.

John shook his head slowly. "Not yours, Dean."

"O…kay. Then…"

John's gaze dropped to the floor, then slowly slid upward.

Sam swallowed with difficulty as his father's eyes, filled with regret, found his. "Mine," Sam whispered.

"No," Dean growled.

"It's the only way, Dean."

"Dad—"

"The _only_ way."

There was anger in his father's voice, but Sam recognized it as the frustration it was. Dad didn't like it, either. And from the look in his eyes, he knew what he was asking of Sam. Not that he'd actually asked…

No. No, Dad wouldn't force him, would he? Sam thought back to the cave, to when Dean had cut him down. The sight of Dean's knife had numbed his mind, turned his blood to ice. He didn't want to remember any further back than that. He couldn't get away. Couldn't escape the pain. Too much. It was too much—

"I can't," he said, chest heaving for breath. He couldn't get enough air.

Hands cupped his face. "Easy, Sammy. Easy," Dad soothed.

Sam jerked away as if burned. "No!"

The hands fell away, the voice becoming sterner. "Nobody's forcing you to, okay? It has to be your decision."

"Sammy? Sam!" Another voice broke through the roar in his ears.

Sam reached out and grabbed his brother's arm. Dean was there.

"Nobody's touching you, Sam. You hear me? Nobody's gonna hurt you. I promise."

Dean was there. It was okay. The noise faded; the haze cleared. Sam could breathe again. The concerned faces of his father and brother swam before him.

"You with me?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam managed, though it sounded like a horrible squeak to his ears. Embarrassed, he glanced at Dad. Luckily, his father wasn't looking at him, but Sam saw his shoulder's sag with relief, saw the shaking hand drag through his hair. Then Dad's eyes slid over to Dean.

"Outside," their father said.

What? No! Sam tightened his grip.

"I'll be right back, Sam," Dean promised. "I'll be right outside."

Sam thought he may have managed the smallest of nods. Then they were gone, and Sam was alone. A shiver coursed through him, and his skin puckered into gooseflesh. It _hurt_. He wanted the pain to stop. He didn't want to be afraid anymore.

He just wanted to feel safe.

**oooOOOooo**

"What the hell's the matter with you?" John spun on him, his face taut.

Dean jerked back, caught off guard, but he recovered quickly. "Me? What's the matter with _you_? Can't you see how scared he is?"

Dad's fists were firmly planted on his hips. "Yes, I can see that. But he needs to get over it."

Dean gave a short, incredulous laugh. "You're kidding me, right? Dad, it hasn't even been a day. You can't expect him to—"

"Dean, stop babying your brother. He's seventeen!"

"And he was _tortured_, Dad! With a knife. Don't you get that?" As soon as the words left his mouth, Dean regretted them. Not because they weren't true, but because of his father's reaction to them. For just a moment, a glimpse of how much Dad was hurting over this flickered across his face, how scared he was for Sam. Then the mask was back in place.

"Dean," John's voice lowered to a reasoning tone.

"No, Dad. You didn't see him. The thing had him strung up, like some piece of meat ready to be carved. He freaked out when I tried to cut him down. Now you want him to be okay with being cut again? You say nobody's forcing him, but that's exactly what you're doing. It's his decision, but the answer has to be yes."

"There's no other way."

"Yeah, so you said, but how do we know that?"

John sighed. "The last time this happened, they tried everything. Nothing worked, until one person escaped. He was tortured, too. Just like Sammy. His blood dripped into the bowl, and there was an instant reaction—the thing was banished."

Dean paced. He really wanted to punch something. He jammed his hands into his pockets, afraid that "something" might be his father. "He needs more time."

"We may not have time. It _will_ be back."

"Yeah, well, we'll deal with it then."

There was a long pause. Dean waited.

"They're setting up the ritual again. Center of camp. I need Sammy at sundown." John turned to walk away.

"The other survivor," Dean called after his father. "How long did it take him to recover?"

John stopped but didn't turn. "He didn't," he said flatly. "He went insane."

**oooOOOooo**

Inside the wickiup, Sam couldn't stop shaking. He pulled the coverings tightly around himself, but the warmth didn't help. Dean had said he would be right outside, and he'd kept his word, but the conversation Sam had overheard did nothing to quell his fears. He wanted to help, he really did. But…

Sam shivered again. How could his father do this to him? Didn't he understand? Didn't he care?

Alone in the hut, Sam Winchester cried.

**oooOOOOooo**

Dean watched his father's retreating form until it disappeared around another hut. It wasn't until his jaw began to ache that he realized his teeth were clenched.

He was torn. The hunter in him knew Dad was right; they had to banish the creature before anyone else was hurt or killed. But where Dad could shut down "father mode" whenever necessary, Dean had real trouble turning off "big brother."

He'd been told all his life to _take care of Sammy_ and _watch out for_ _your brother_. He'd taken it to heart, practically raised the kid. In their world, where all they had was each other, Sam wasn't just his little brother: he was Dean's best friend. Sure, Sam pissed him off, and sometimes Dean just wanted to deck him, but he loved him just the same. Whenever Sam was hurt, Dean felt responsible, like he'd failed in his duty as older brother. And Dad expected him to walk Sam to the slaughter?

Okay, so that was an exaggeration. Dad would never ask Sam to do anything that would endanger his life. But Sammy was _scared_. Didn't Dad see that? There had to be a way to give the kid some more time. Just a little more time, and Dean was sure Sam would overcome all this.

Yeah, so the last guy had gone nuts. So what? He'd probably never seen anything supernatural before. Sam practically grew up with it. He'd seen all kinds of crazy, stuff most people thought was myth and legend. He'd gotten over all that with no more than the occasional nightmare. He'd get over this, too.

_He was tortured_, the big brother voice reminded Dean.

_He'll get past it_, the hunter assured him.

On that, he had to side with the hunter.

With a sigh, Dean ran a hand over his face, wiping away the sweat that had collected on his forehead, and turned back to the hut.

When he entered, Sam was lying on his side with his back to Dean

Dean walked quietly back to the spot he'd claimed beside the makeshift bed and sat down. He watched his brother, and after a moment, he was certain Sam wasn't asleep. He wanted Dean to think he was, but you didn't spend every day, nearly twenty-four/seven with someone and not know when they were feigning sleep.

He also knew Sam had heard the conversation, just as Dad had intended him to.

Dean thought about saying something, but he couldn't think of anything that wouldn't sound lame. He settled on gently mussing Sam's already tousled hair, then sat back to keep his promise.

**oooOOOooo**

_It was coming for him. He could feel it. But the only thing he could see was its eyes. Its glowing yellow eyes that beamed through the darkness and straight into his soul, paralyzing him, stilling his lungs so he couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, couldn't do anything to escape it. Escape the knife. The pain. Where was Dean? He promised to stay with him, to keep him safe._ _He needed Dean._

"Dean!" Sam sat bolt upright, but something grabbed hold of his arms, kept him from falling over. He had to blink a few times before his eyes would focus. "Dean?"

"Just a nightmare, Sammy," his brother soothed. "You're okay."

Sam glanced around, getting his bearings, trying to relax and slow his pounding heart. Dean held onto him through it, and Sam was grateful for the support. He nodded his thanks.

Dean clapped his arms once before letting go and settling back onto the floor.

"How long was I out?" Sam asked, rubbing the thumb and forefinger of one hand into his eyes.

"'Bout four hours."

Sam's head canted toward his brother. "Four hours?"

Dean sniffed and nodded. "Been reading your notes on this thing. Everything I ever wanted to know about Big Al, and then some."

Sam didn't take the bait, far too concerned about what Dean had in his hands. If Dean had his notes…

"This is good work, Sammy," Dean said, subdued.

Sam didn't respond. He waited, his heart picking up speed again.

Dean's eyes met his, and Sam saw the truth. His brother knew about the letter.

"Something you want to tell me, bro?"

Gaze dropping, Sam finally looked at the small red marks on his chest and abdomen. He ran his tongue over his dry bottom lip, not even knowing where to begin. But he had to say something. He owed Dean that much. He looked up at his brother again. "I—"

A scream rent the air, cutting him off. A woman's scream.

Dean shot to his feet with lethal grace, shotgun in his hand. He bolted to the doorway but stopped there, eyes searching.

Sam tossed aside the covers and slowly got to his feet. He grabbed the wooden frame of the wickiup as a wave of vertigo hit.

Dean was at his side in an instant. "What are you doing?"

"It's here," Sam managed to gasp out. Dean's lack of reply was confirmation enough. "Oh, God," Sam said on a breath. He closed his eyes, fighting the dizziness. "Weapon."

"Sammy—"

He opened his eyes and glared at Dean. "It's Sam."

A quirk of a smile touched Dean's lips before he turned and dug through the duffel. He pulled out the pump-action shotgun and brought it to Sam. "You don't have to do this," he said.

Sam took the weapon. "Yeah. I do." It took effort to prime the weapon, his arms still weak, but he managed.

With a nod, Dean headed outside. Sam followed, dressed only in his bloodstained jeans, a single thought flitting through his mind: _What the hell am I doing?_

**oooOOOooo**_  
><em>

The normally peaceful camp was in chaos. Sam tried to run, to keep up with Dean, but he just didn't have the strength. And what he had left was draining fast. He'd thought he could do this, but now he wasn't so sure.

All around him, women and children were being hustled into huts. There was shouting in English and Apache, hard to make out in the din, but _Nchaa_ _Bu_ was clear. The evil spirit that, according to all his research, attacked only sole wanderers in the woods. Yet here it was, out in the open, in a camp full of people. They must have really infuriated it. Or…it simply had unfinished business.

The thought slowed Sam's steps, stealing his breath. Damn it!

Another scream, this one close by. There was gunfire, then shouting. His father's voice. Dean.

Sam ran, pushing himself forward until he rounded the corner and all but crashed into his brother. Automatic reflex had Dean reaching out, catching Sam around the chest. Sam barely noticed; his torturer was standing just a few yards away. Sound became muted, and Sam felt displaced, as if he were watching a dream.

Victoria was running toward the creature, and suddenly Sam could see why. Tucked under one of _Nchaa Bu's_ arms was a child, one of Victoria's students, not more than six years old.

The teacher grabbed onto the thing, but with little effort it flung her away. She hit the ground hard and lay still.

Councilman Paul cried his daughter's name. Sam glanced his way and saw for the first time that his father was with Paul and Joseph. There were sigils drawn at their feet, and the ritual bowl was centered amidst them.

Sam gripped Dean's shirt and pulled himself upright. The creature turned and lumbered to its basket, then lowered the child inside.

Sam's vision clouded, and he suddenly understood what people meant when they said they saw red. Rage and the need for retaliation—for _revenge_—overshadowed his fear. This had to end. Now.

"Give me your knife," Sam said urgently, his decision made.

Dean didn't hesitate. He pulled his Bowie from its sheath, flipped it and caught the blade, then handed it over hilt first.

Sam took it in a less than steady hand, then staggered with purposefully to the ritual site.

Joseph was chanting as though he already knew Sam's intentions. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw his father step back, watching intently as Sam stopped outside the circle.

Sam paused for just a moment, held his breath, then drew the blade across his palm with barely a wince. Blood welled up from the cut and slid over the edge of his hand.

Wobbling on shaky legs, Sam took a step to steady himself. He reached out over the bowl and let the blood drip down into its contents. "Sayonara, you son of a bitch," he hissed through clenched teeth.

He really didn't see what happened after that. His vision blacked out around the edges, his hand dropping to his side. There was an unearthly shriek, but he barely heard it; everything was muted.

Sam's head fell back, and suddenly he was looking at the sky. Strength abandoned him, and his legs folded. Sam crumpled to the ground as everything around him went dark and silent.

Sam blinked, looked around. He was sitting on the ground, leaning back against Dean as Dad tied a handkerchief around his left hand and knotted it over the palm. There were other anxious faces surrounding him as well. Some he didn't recognize; some he did. Paul. Charlie and Joseph…Victoria. She was holding a little girl. _The_ little girl, Sam realized. The one _Nchaa Bu_ had—

"Is it…?"

"You did it, Sammy," Dad said with a nod of approval. "It's gone."

"You okay?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded, the top of his head brushing against his brother's chin. His eyes strayed up again as Paul moved to herd away the crowd, but Victoria remained, whispering something into the little girl's ear as she pointed at Sam.

The girl looked at Sam with huge brown eyes. _"Ashoge,"_ she said meekly.

Sam thought a moment, then smiled, remembering. "You're welcome," he replied.

Giving Sam a gentle nudge, Dean said, "Let's get you back to bed."

"Can we go back to the cabin?" Sam asked, not caring if there was a hint of a plea there. "I'd really like to change my clothes. What's left of them."

"Think you can make the walk?" Dad asked.

"I can make it," Sam assured him, but was grateful for Dean's help as he struggled to his feet.

It wouldn't be easy, but he was so tired of the smell of blood. And if he had to lean on his brother a little along the way, he didn't think Dean would mind.

**oooOOOooo**

Sam slept most of the next day.

After the long walk back to their cabin—Dean and John practically carrying him by the end—Sam had fallen onto his bunk with a mumbled, "I just need a minute." Then he was snoring, the change of clothes he'd so desperately wanted, forgotten.

It was a bit of a struggle, but with Dad's help, Dean had managed to get the blood-caked jeans off. They left Sam in his boxers and tucked him in. The kid hadn't moved since.

Dean sat on his own bunk across from Sam, his back against the wall. He was getting antsy, wanting to be on the move. He'd done some training with Dad earlier in the day, cleaned the weapons, packed what they didn't need. Now Dad was back at camp with Paul, and Dean was alone with his sleeping brother. The quiet was driving him nuts; it gave him too much time to think.

He remembered the letter. Sam received a lot of letters from colleges, but he usually threw them away. Why was this one different? It had touted what a wonderful school Stanford was, what great education it offered. That Sam's academic achievements and GPA all but assured him a scholarship. It was a dream come true. For Sam.

What if Sam left? What would Dean do then? He couldn't even imagine what it would be like without his kid brother around. They were family. Maybe that didn't mean a lot to some people, but it mattered to the Winchesters.

Movement on the next bed caught his attention. Dean looked up to see Sam stirring.

No, not stirring. Sam's brow was creased, and his head tossed. Nightmare. Yeah, Dean supposed there'd be a lot of those for the next few weeks. The damn thing was gone, but it was still hurting Sam.

Dean slid off his bunk and dropped to his knees beside his brother. "Sam?" he called gently. "Wake up, bro."

Sam gasped, his eyes popping open, wide and dilated. It took him a moment to focus on Dean. Then he closed his eyes with a sigh. One hand maneuvered its way out from under the covers to rub at his eyes. "Time 'zit?"

"Time for you to get the hell out of bed, Sleeping Beauty." Dean grinned.

Sam groaned. "No, really, Dean, what—?"

"Four-thirty."

That woke Sam up. "What?"

"Seriously, dude. You've been asleep for almost twenty-four hours." Dean mussed Sam's hair, just to annoy him. "You okay?"

Sam didn't answer right away. Then, "I'm…tired, Dean."

Dean laughed it off, but there was an ache in the pit of his stomach that wouldn't go away. "After all that sleep, you're still—"

"That's not what I mean."

Yeah. He knew that. Dean stayed quiet, waiting to see what his brother had to say. He watched Sam expectantly.

"Where's Dad?"

"He's not here." The ache got worse.

"I don't—" Sam's voice caught, so he had to swallow before he could continue. "I don't think I can do this anymore." It was spoken just above a whisper.

"This…" Now Dean felt gut-punched. "You mean hunt?"

Sam nodded.

"Sam—"

"I'm tired of the nightmares, Dean!" Sam turned tear-filled, beseeching eyes to him. Like he was lost and was looking to his big brother to supply all the answers. "I'm tired of all the moving around, the orders. I want Dad to be my dad, not my drill sergeant. I'm tired of being scared all the time."

"I know you're scared, Sam." Dean chose his words carefully. "I get scared, too. The nightmares'll pass. Just try to focus on what you did yesterday. I mean, _dude_. That was one major Big Bad you took out, bro. You saved that little girl's life. You saved a lot of lives—that's gotta count for something."

"Dean…"

"Sam, look. I get it. I do. Just…" Dean paused, swallowing hard, his voice sounding rough to his own ears. "…don't make any decisions right now, okay? Let's just…get past this. Give it a couple of weeks. Then we'll talk, about anything you want. Okay?"

Sam sniffed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay," he said finally.

Dean nodded. "Good. So…you want something to eat? Victoria dropped off a basket of fresh-baked bread she made with the kids. Good stuff."

Sam's hesitant shrug coaxed a grin from Dean. That was a yes in his book.

"I'll be right back." He stood and headed for the door.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the letter, Dean."

He stopped in the doorway, his eyes closing a moment while his back was to Sam.

He opened his eyes, looked over his shoulder, and gave Sam a nod. Then he headed for the kitchen.

**oooOOOooo**

The sun warmed the top of his head as Sam sat waiting with his brother for their ride, the SUV that would drive them back to Phoenix due any time now. Sam and his father and brother had arrived at the camp early to offer their thanks and say their good-byes. Sam would miss the Apache, but he couldn't honestly say he was sorry to go.

A few paces away, Dad stood with Councilman Paul.

"_Ashoge, Navezgane_," Paul said, shaking Dad's hand.

"_A he ya eh_," John replied.

Huh. Sam didn't know Dad spoke any Apache.

"_Navezgane_?" Dean leaned in to ask, _sotto voce_.

Sam grinned. He knew something Dean didn't? Oh, this was too good. "Dad's Apache name," he whispered back.

"Dad has an Apache name?" Dean straightened, his eyebrows shooting up. "What's it mean?"

"Killer of Monsters," Sam answered smugly.

The eyebrows came down. "And I guess you don't have an Apache name because there's no translation for douche bag."

"Jackass."

"Bitch-face."

"Boys!"

Dad's barked reprimand shut them both up instantly, but that didn't stop Dean from elbowing Sam in the arm.

Sam nudged him back.

"Bring it on, little brother," Dean dared in a hushed voice. It was going to be a long ride back to the Impala.

_Navezgane,_ Killer of Monsters, was gonna be pissed.

Fin

_Author's note: This story first appeared in the fanzine __**Brotherhood **__from Pyramids Press._


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